The short story
John Clare Stokes
Nothing saddens me greater
than to walk among the headstones
and know only born and died on
with maybe a line of scripture
Would there a writer for every soul
to etch a book upon their stone
for when in the cemetery we roam
the details of a life we’d know.
All deserved more than a dated line
Many a novel lies never to be read
So many pages among the dead
Oh if only scribes we could find.
Price Creek Cemetery
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