In silken shrouds of misted-gray
Dust-fragrant folds caress
The transient corpse of this wee day
As it is laid to rest
Across blue hill and dusk-cloaked pond
A soulful dirge begins
Drifting from crypts of earth beyond
This vale of mortal sins
And souls, yet cloaked in human flesh
Pause, ere they lie to sleep
As notes of loss and hope enmesh
The song that tunes the deep
The stillness of night’s hollow seas
With farewell tones is fraught
The rise and fall of memories
Resounding in our thought
Into the void of Past it slips
Buried, but not with sod
This Day is gone, from fingertips
Of man, returned to God
© Janet Martin
beautiful!
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