I met an old man leaving church one day
And he arrested me with but a smile,
His face quite raisined, and his eyes were grey,
His wizzed body leaned against a stile.
You do not know me, but I know you, he said
In soft and gentle voice I seemed to know;
A sense of burden in his face I read
And he continued in a whisper low.
In the graveyard stands a blank face stone
Ahead a mound, but no words written there,
I placed it so for you when you were born
And have maintained it with the greatest care.
Are you the reaper? I blurted out in fear!
A messenger— your epithaph’s unclear.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.