Grave Thoughts Poem by Bob Dellar

I pass a graveyard late at night,
moonlight playing on the headstones.
Their shadows dark hooked fingers
that claw at the ground;
dry winter tuffs of grass sprouting
like dead men`s beards from their base.

They lean towards each other
like thugs before a fight,
talking in soft sandstone whispers
that hiss across their lichens and moss;
telling tales of lost lives that linger,
in the cold clay beneath them.