My Grave

Within a non-hallowed ground dig my grave,
Let the green grass go o’er it this I crave:
Atop a lively hill I sleep alone,
I await the far-western wind and moan,
My name is mortal, lived fast and so free;
I lay neath wild flowers, that is just me,
The wind can blow and caress o’er my bones,
A moss-laden tree o’er me like a throne,
And someone one comes at the stroke of midnight,
Asking where is that last poem I did write.

©April 7, 2017 / Jerry Pat Bolton