They forged a path. Sunday after Sunday
Walking across the commons to their church:
On winter mornings their boots
Crushed the sparkling snowfall, in spring
The new flowered buttercups, until
The grass withered and the earth
Turned hard as the commandments of their faith.
And now they’re gone. Their names
Remembered only on the lichened stones
Angled in the abandoned churchyard.
Where once they walked wild clovers
Proliferate, the meadowsweets
Increase and multiply, and a field mouse
Scuttles through the dew-soaked undergrowth
Inheriting the earth.