It’s a new moon in the elephants graveyard,
and the procession approaches with a thudding grace
a ripple along the viscera.
And the trees rise black and sharp against the pewter sky,
and the bones
lie piled in solemn spacings,
all deckled edges and memory pressed,
as the moon stands silent sentinel overhead.
It’s a new moon in the elephants graveyard
and the packed earth rumbles in recognition
as the memory keepers close around.
The wise eyes dark with the burden of years,
the air full of tears and longing,
even the hills sigh as they pass,
the ghosts following like pale mourners,
and the morning will rise only after it is certain,
that their time of committal is done.