Stopping by a Graveyard on a Foggy Afternoon

Just to sit and contemplate
what was and is not now
one needs no loved one
in that hallowed ground.
One's own history will serve.
What losses happened, what successes,
how many houses got blown down
by huffing puffing me, me, me?

Here in what ought to be icy mid-winter
this fog, heaven-hiding, is even more eerie.
These names and these numbers,
these ends and beginnings,
have nowhere to turn but to me,
a whispered echo on a bench,
the merest gesture of eternity,
who can but tip my cap.

May we all rest in peace, near and far
since peace, at heart, is all we really are

no matter what we think.

16 January 2026
Texas Jim
Lower Prospect, Nova Scotia