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My great, great grandfather
Watched funeral processions
Black carriages with drawn coal-hued curtains creaking finality,
conjuring swirling, angry storm clouds
from the clear, fragile sky
He saw them on neat, nicotine-stained country roads
that bisected summer’s sun-kissed fields
He waited as the processions appeared on frost-tinged horizons
Somber pitch-dark parades
framed by fallow burnt umber fields
A distant murder of crows beneath the flat grey dome of winter
becoming thick, dusty horses pulling death behind them
Nostrils exhaling ghosts in the chilled air
Plodding, blindered and serious
Chuffing low, tired dirges
on the way to the small graveyard on the edge of town
The dead following the cadence of the inevitable
Family and neighbors destined to be lowered
cold and alone, covered in shrouds of prayers and tears
Becoming dust under the indifferent stars
He always waited respectfully
on the side of the road
Hat doffed, looking down
Staring hard at the earth
so eager to devour the living
and spit out the bones
A reverent silhouetted scarecrow
Muttering condolences to the crop-fragranced air
Nodding his farewells
As funeral processions only he could see
passed invisible on vacant roads
Folks called it the Sight in hushed whispers
But he didn’t see it that way
Watching the smoke-clouded phantoms wisp by
As ebony bells foreshadowed the future
Carrying the burden of Knowing
Who was going to die
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