Cemeteries

I stand . . . mesmerised, gazing at your crumbling, weathered tombstone - your chiselled name barely discernable . . .

Surrounded by other ghosts of the past, I have eyes only for you. You are mine. I have found you.

I feel you in my bones. My blood is your blood. My cells were your cells. Your flesh is gone, but your spirit lives on in my heart and soul, and I am grateful.

You knew me not, nor was I there to mourn when you died. Then, a hundred years later, I was born.

I wonder if you ever dreamt that down the years, with my eyes full of tears, I'd visit you one day, and say . . .

                            Dear Ancestor . . .
                                                       Thank you.