Hilltop Cemetery Poem by Barry Middleton

the oak that counts the years is bare
the winter wind has stripped its leaves
and so it is for every soul
for time is but a band of thieves

the green will come again in spring
its golden glow may yet deceive
not all will wake from darkened sleep
and those who do may surely grieve

beneath these trees grow daffodils
in pageants filled with springtime grace
the ancestors and silent past
have found a final resting place

a generation passes on
their spirits scattered by the wind
the faded stones forget the names
where epitaphs no more pretend