The Visit

He shuffled down the dusty lane,
Old age had stooped his head.
He yearned for days once filled with life
And friends who now were dead.

This frequent journey drew his heart
Across the fading prairie
Past the time-worn country church
To Sunset Cemetery.

Inside the gate with rusted hinge
He trod this path alone.
Into the field where broken hearts
Are marked with granite stone.

Three rows west, then to the north,
By love's magnetic power,
Steps halted as they reach the soil
That clutched a withered flower.

A finger traced his Dearest's name,
"Rebecca, wife of Joe."
Tears held within could not be staunched
And started streams to flow.

'Twas sixty some odd years ago
He still could hear her voice,
"I promise to love and obey."
She gladly made her choice.

Years of her birth and of her death,
Were dates inscribed within.
And added to the epitaph
Was "Till We Meet Again."

'Twas at these words his head perked up.
A smile graced his chin.
And he was glad he came that day
Just to remember when.

On he strolled in retrospect,
Then paused at an old grave.
He still could hear, within his mind,
The voice of Pastor Dave.

'Twas Pastor Dave who visited
When little Grace was ill.
He prayed with them all through the night
And stayed till she was well.

A smile broke when he recalled
How Pastor Dave was teased
When his false teeth flew from his mouth,
While preaching … when he sneezed.

His eye, then captured by a flag
That billowed with the breeze,
He moved ahead to reminisce
'Bout boats that sailed the seas.

'Twas in the Navy, World War II,
He served with Frank McComb.
A poppy lay next to the flag,
Frank never made it home.

Like prophets, who still speak though dead,
These saints, their voices rose
As he continued to recall
His friends in their repose.

His heart had shed its shroud of grief.
With tears, his spirit cleansed,
For hope was resurrected when
Encouraged by his friends

(written by Beth LaBuff - 2007)

The Visit

He shuffled down the dusty lane,
Old age had stooped his head.
He yearned for days once filled with life
And friends who now were dead.

This frequent journey drew his heart
Across the fading prairie
Past the time-worn country church
To Sunset Cemetery.

Inside the gate with rusted hinge
He trod this path alone.
Into the field where broken hearts
Are marked with granite stone.

Three rows west, then to the north,
By love's magnetic power,
Steps halted as they reach the soil
That clutched a withered flower.

A finger traced his Dearest's name,
"Rebecca, wife of Joe."
Tears held within could not be staunched
And started streams to flow.

'Twas sixty some odd years ago
He still could hear her voice,
"I promise to love and obey."
She gladly made her choice.

Years of her birth and of her death,
Were dates inscribed within.
And added to the epitaph
Was "Till We Meet Again."

'Twas at these words his head perked up.
A smile graced his chin.
And he was glad he came that day
Just to remember when.

On he strolled in retrospect,
Then paused at an old grave.
He still could hear, within his mind,
The voice of Pastor Dave.

'Twas Pastor Dave who visited
When little Grace was ill.
He prayed with them all through the night
And stayed till she was well.

A smile broke when he recalled
How Pastor Dave was teased
When his false teeth flew from his mouth,
While preaching … when he sneezed.

His eye, then captured by a flag
That billowed with the breeze,
He moved ahead to reminisce
'Bout boats that sailed the seas.

'Twas in the Navy, World War II,
He served with Frank McComb.
A poppy lay next to the flag,
Frank never made it home.

Like prophets, who still speak though dead,
These saints, their voices rose
As he continued to recall
His friends in their repose.

His heart had shed its shroud of grief.
With tears, his spirit cleansed,
For hope was resurrected when
Encouraged by his friends

(written by Beth LaBuff - 2007)