Down in the valley where grasses roll to the sea,
And blue joins seamlessly with blue,
A building graveyard slumbers.
High-limbed trees arch over rough walls and empty windows,
Stream running clear to nowhere.
Step to the schoolhouse-
Step, stop and listen.
High-pitched voices at play dance lightly,
Dust motes of memory.
The church bell rings, calls
do not forget us,
do not let our sacrifice go
unnoticed and unattended.
Wild flowers catch our eye,
nodding wisely in the breezes.
“Each year we wither and yet return,
our roots clinging deep to the land.”
So too, the memories clinging here
live once more through travellers’ eyes
and we walk away, hushed and aware.