You are the Editor (Fathers Poems)

Fathers' Graves

Within the lych-gate, where man-eating yews
rise up and brood upon the church roof leads,
where gravestones slant, where noisome, night bats choose,
umbrella furled, to hang their alien heads;
my fathers' monument this cannot be.
I'll find another and more sacred place
to sing and dance and shout the pedigree
of those lamented dead whom I embrace.
Not like the echoes in the empty porch
nor squeaking swallows on a dismal day
nor falling embers from a dying torch
on splendid stallions they went away;
hoofbeats to music turned to happy airs
behind them winter and our present cares.

Roy Ernest Ballard
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