I am lost in here, beneath the brambles and the weeds
My grandson’s grandson looks for me
He wonders what sort of man I was
if I was somehow like him, searching

He could hunt down the histories, line by line
but like me he is impatient
darting from one part of the graveyard to another
straining to read the  collapsing inscriptions

hoping for inspiration, fate, some kind of
inner knowledge or
voice from beyond

He could track me down perhaps
from documents and records
but he prefers to travel graveyards
and I am here, really I am

lost in the thorns
hidden for years

The sun is going down
He is not far away now
We are much closer
than he would dare  believe