POETRY

Bury Me on the Hill at St. Boniface

Photo by the author

It is fitting for a team of men to toil
At picking out the stubborn stones within the ancient hills
To make a grave.

It is fitting for the women
To lay in salt tears and sighs
And cries of woe.

It is natural for those who strain to bear the bodies up the hill
To lay the dead to rest and then descend,
plotting careful steps and contemplating death.
It is right for the hill to face the valley to the west.
Never a proper sunset to be seen from there,
but at least the pleasing orange blush of dusk
To dye the writing on the stones
before the silver twilight and the black.