The Stone Carver by John F. McCullagh

I am patient in my work. I take pride in what I do.
I have no room to make mistakes that would, forever, be on view.
I crouch before the stone with the dew still on the grass.
I record the names and dates which are their only epitaphs.
I’ve been at this work some time and I always work alone.
For lives written on water I record their term in stone.
Each gravestone holds a story of a life, once lived, now past.
These lives of joy and sorrow which, though precious, do not last.
Each one searching for their meaning, experienced alone,
from the moment of conception until the day that they’re called home.
Some here had lived a century, others just a day,
their entrances and exits incused for posterity.
Fate, which is inexorable, brings everyone this way.
to leave a stone upon a stone, to ponder and to pray

I will leave it to another, on a not so distant day,

To record for my posterity the day I passed away.

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One thought on “The Stone Carver by John F. McCullagh

  1. Pingback: The Greenwich Village Literary Review Fall 2014, Vol. I, No. 2 | The Greenwich Village Literary Review

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