To Sit in a Cemetery

I sit in the three hundred year old cemetery and closed my eyes. The quiet seeping into my bones chilling, then warming me. Pocketed stones clatter together on headstones, while the only whispers heard are the ones that sing through the tears of the weeping willows. Above my head the sun shines brightly, almost too gay for where I am. Thoughts shift around as my ears listen intently to noises that seem absent from this time and space. Are they the voices of the long dead, or merely the scritching of tiny feet over bark? A gust of wind blows the hair back from my face, and then settles next to me, and I feel calm. A shout from my friend announces our departure, so I grudgingly haul to my feet and walk to the falling down wall and back into the world of the animate.

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