I was about to place a photo for this week’s challenge taken by my good lady wife but then my mind turned to more serious matters and I was again reminded how fragile life can be. Delicately fragile! We are never sure about the next second’s impact on our existence!!
These thoughts reminded me of a verse I’d written after visiting Mick’s grave a few weeks ago. It was a chilly Sunday afternoon… there was a dusting of snow on the distant hills and I’m convinced the weather turned even fouler as I sat waiting for my good lady to collect me from the cemetery.
While I was sitting at the entrance a few people strolled in and went in the direction of their loved one’s graves. Other drove in… up the narrow path to disappear from view, only to return minutes later… their dutiful deed complete for another week, or maybe even month. That got me thinking of the strange rituals of some. I must say, I’m not at all fond of visiting graves or cemeteries… especially places that are still very much in use. For me it’s OK to go walking through the historic places.
I much rather feel to celebrate life! It is so delicate… I feel we should place more emphasis on the now. Once our folk have passed on we should cherish their memories… not make slaves of ourselves by being forced into the ritual of visiting their graves.
The death of a loved one is sad enough as it is… by continually dragging oneself to the grave just goes to erode the once bright light of life! Life is a delicate balancing act… so, let’s rather celebrate with the folk while they’re around…
When your religion forces you into upholding the ritual
Yet you’ve long abandoned your roots in the faith of old
What’s to be gained by continuing the tradition or vigil?
When you gather around a loved one’s neatly kept grave
Wrapped warmly against the sleet and mid winter’s cold
Enacting weekly visits to which you’ve become a slave
At the cemetery‘s gate I waited, watching while they arrive
Seeing how they meekly obey, doing as they’ve been told
Rather, we should be thankful for every day we’re still alive
It shouldn’t mean continuing without any reason or rhyme
At the graves heads solemnly bowing, some sight to behold
There seems no meaning, yet they return, time after time
Muttering, muttering… for the souls of the long departed
To some old, meaningless yoke their souls they have sold
It’s time to consider where these rituals may have started
Is there any worth, is there any value in clinging to past fear?
Into the future we must go, their memories our treasured gold
Praying for the living while holding the memory of our lost dear!