That’s Not Her Gravestone

…and yet she’s at ‘It’ every day,
pulling weeds and shedding tears.
Homeless, begs outside the entrance
of the main post office.
Only been in town a few months,
God only knows,
where she’s originally from?
Has a slight Northern accent,
and doesn’t look quite so old
when you get up close.
I spoke to her, one sunny day,
a couple of weeks ago,
drinking water from the flower vase tap.
Said her name was ‘Mary’
and that she felt sorry for the Grave
because it was the only one
that no one ever came to visit.
Nuts? Maybe, who knows…
harmless enough is all that matters.
She’s obviously lost and lonely…
and to my mind, I think…
that little Concrete Cross
has become a physical marker
for her very own sorrow and grief.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.