The Land of Quiet Things
With apologies to R.L. Stevenson
At night time when the lights are off
I cough a fearsome-sounding cough.
If no one comes to check my health
I climb upon the roof by stealth.
I slide straight down the nearest tree
And through the gate, and then I’m free!
I’m soon among the statuary
In the nearest cemetary.
Where stone angels softly tread,
I whisper to the newly dead.
Sometimes they whisper back to me
Of things few mortals ever see.
I love the cold, the damp, the dew.
I love the things that mourners do.
I love the ring I found one day
Where only shrouded children play.
I sip the dew from funeral flowers.
I seek the ghost who marks the hours.
Specters are splendid in this place
But none are Death. I seek His face.
At dawn the watchman takes my hand
And leads me from this starry land.
Someday I hope He’ll let me stay;
Then underneath the ground I’ll lay
And play with beetles in my hair
And play with thoughts that find my lair
And wait for night to bring out boys
Who’ve rings of stone and spectral toys.
