It doesn’t matter that we didn’t know you,
your name eroded above this graveyard plot,
history not marking your place,
nor to great events connected,
that even like an unknown soldier
would otherwise note your part.
But like your fissured stone,
your missing presence in the past,
even just your may have been walking on this grass,
would by tiny cracks make absent
some substance lost in us
and imperceptibly diminish
our cosmic consciousness.
Upon the pictures of what has gone
we gaze at heroes and the greats,
nobles and devils,
those we love and those we hate.
Yet without the painting’s canvas,
by most of us ignored,
this fabric, we its warped and wefted threads,
this stretched taught plain of plainness
upon which these epic daubings stand,
our own story would be fractured
and us this canvas, torn.
Even while looking upon your place,
our standing present here
drips its instant droplets
of this now becoming then,
moments falling from our lives
absorbed to yours before
our dreaded destined end.
We splash our colours in hope to leave
our memorable shapes and signs.
Until our story stops its flow,
we add our likely unknown tale,
our own brief and humble history,
to blend with yours forever.
becoming this and all the ground
of all we’ve been together.
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