Flickering Lights

Weren't they here last year, the flowers of long ago lore,
Standing silently in that desolate field,
Letting the evening breeze tug them along,
Emotionless sentries of forgotten secrets.
The vast stretch of them,
Whiter than winter's snow,
Populating, thriving in that fertile triangle,
With grey, foreboding slabs of rock for company.
Peaceful it was in the day,
Tranquil it is at night.
Not a sound, save for the sounds of nature,
Of flora and fauna.
Those white sentries are gone now,
the stone slabs cease to intimidate another.
Now all that remains,
Are those who live
Six feet under.

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