There’s no way to explain the way
the fog and the mist
moves slowly in,
and then everything is shrouded,
like a burial cloth that hugs, drapes, but does not stir.
The impenetrable silence,
there in rolling hills of stones, markers, mausoleums, and tears.
The noises of life outside the gates stop,
time stops, and there just is,
The wind moves the dark, ancient trees,
and small, faint lights appear in blurred, far off corners
of this space.
Are they waiting for them to come home?
The chill is palpable on my cheek,
but the mist is soft and gentle.
In this place there is no time, there is only eternity.