Stone flowers are all l gave to you,
Stone flowers will never leave,
Stone flowers are my comfort,
As I stand alone and grieve.
Never will they wither,
Like my love, forever true,
A constant, stone reminder,
Of the sweetheart I once knew.
Exquisite crafted petals,
Each leaf the perfect size,
I feel the contours of each bloom,
Yet all I feel are lies.
These stoney blooms aren’t soft to touch,
Their colours grey and cold,
They don’t feel like your silky skin,
They just feel rough and old.
Each rose should match your full, red lips,
Each forget-me-not, your eyes,
Each tall, green stem, your slender frame,
Each leaf your rounded thighs.
Yet, all that I will ever see,
Forged by the mason’s tools,
Are stoney flowers on your grave,
My tears; adorning jewels.
3rd March 2019
As I stroll through the churchyard of St. Cynllo’s, I’m always struck by the ornate, intricate carvings on some of the aged, gothic gravestones. They were the prompt for this poem, with the narrator being a bereft young man. I’m always a little uncomfortable at sharing morbid subjects, but I hope you’ll forgive…