Cemetery
I like the gravity of a cemetery
sentinel heads protect the secrets of skeletons
from cool closet to sun-baked earth
and I imagine and mourn their stories
returned to dust:
the illicit affair
the stillborn child
intimacies with a trusted priest
(him safely dead too)
and I worry about how names and years disappear
as stone markers crumble over time
and yet red gum salvaged
from the bed of the Murray
has yielded perfectly formed
one-thousand-year-old fossilised tales.
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