Country Churchyard

By Prosari Chanda

Made of huddling trees that moaned

the birds her chuckled to the graves,

mocking both silence and prayer.

Cracked stones, 

a two-year old Ophelia here 

a time-worn Sidney there

they sleep here with lights on 

they sleep here with lights off.

This six-feet grave is their own

Everything else is taxing.

Do paths and errands meet

Where roots and memories braid?

Do they shoot crimsons?

Or blow ashes of propinquity?

Lying beneath the sun’s ferocity and thunder’s applause

silent as a held breath

there are tall stones (some broken), 

rocks in the grass

forgotten somewhere, remembered here.

A stab of horror 

a pinch of thirst 

even decay is a belonging,

while dreaming of the rain.

By Prosari Chanda