The Watchers
Away down the hill,
a pathway of bones.
Winters chill,
gripped by fingers of stone.
Their shadows like knives,
as black as death.
Countless lives,
taking countless breaths.
Unbreathing stones,
watch them all.
watch as their born,
watch as they fall.
Now they watch me,
as I walk the old way.
What do they see?
What would they say?
The stones stand silent,
the stones stand still.
and I walk away,
away down the hill.