Old Cemetery Submitted by Bill F. Timmons Old Cemetery, weed grown, forlorn, forgotten, Headstones bent, some fallen away, Those who sleep there, long since dust, Humble, renowned, who can say. A brook so quietly flowing, Its murmuring sound unheard The world, uncaring, passerby Like a Teeming, thundering bird. The birds' soft lilting, cadence, A rosebush sheltering the bees, A prayer is said for the neglected dead, In the blowing summer breeze, The winter snows fall gently, In that sad but hallowed place, And falling leaves come bringing, The gift of the dear Lord's grace. Then a miracle seems to happen, In that little burying ground, The stones are straight, the weeds are gone, There's sunlight all around. The markers are standing like sentinels, In the shrouding mantle of night. The voices of those who sleep there, Seem to whisper into the wind, "Thank You, friend, 'twas very kind, And won't you please come in? We thought we were forgotten As we rest here under the sod, Walk softly, friend, speak gently, Here in the presence of God."

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