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Below The Grave

A poem by Beverly Stock.

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The shifting shadows above the grave,

The grass growing toward the light,

The massive trees tall and brave

Shades headstones in the moon’s twilight.


The swelling of the bird’s raucous call,

The golden gleam of daffodils,

The wind sounds shrill every fall,

As breeze gives the grave a hearty chill.


The lily laying down her head

Cries, “Why is there sting, o death?”

As snowflakes start to build and spread,

A spirit draws a solemn breath.


Each evening tide the whole world brings,

Spirit’s anthem sounds true and strong,

Below the grave, one waits to sing,

And recite their resurrection song.


 

Beverly Stock is an American poet who delights in creating poetry that asks big questions about small moments, and inspires readers to revisit the little memories we so often overlook. Her work has been published by The Society of Classical Poets, The Chained Muse, Persimmon Tree, and LightenUp Online, in the UK. Visit BeverlyStockPoetry.com and BeverlyStockPoetry on Facebook.

Below The Grave

© 2021 Beverly Stock

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