Each night I walk observing
graves tended and untended,
order and disorder. My head-
stone is blotched with moss
and lichen, my brief story blotted
out. I shimmer in the silver moon-
light, skim long grass and weeds
dusted with dandelion and thistle seeds
between lych gate and porch,
where closely-mown grass scorched
over summer. Tiny flowers spread
there, a quilt on which to lay my head
and wait for eternal sleep to come
where not bees but night-time traffic hums.
Kim M. Russell, 17th September 2019
My response to dVerse Poets Poetics: Waiting for a poem
Sarah is our host this Tuesday; she asks how much of our time we spend waiting for things to happen and how much we spend hanging in the pauses between events, the gaps in our lives – questions to make us think. She says that some waiting is good, and filled with anticipation, while other kinds of waiting are not so good, like waiting for waiting for the dentist to pop his head round the door.
Today, Sarah would like us to write poems of anticipation, maybe hoping for something wonderful, afraid of retribution or just desperate to get off, away or on with something.
writing in north norfolk 
There have been a few ghosts around recently. This is so sad and wistful. Lovely, Kim.
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Thank you, Sarah.
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I like the last line of waiting with the sound of traffic not bees in the background.
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The thought of waiting past your end is so sad… to be a ghost waiting for some closure… I feel sorry for such an existence.
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I hope it never happens to one of us – can you imagine ghost poets unable to communicate their poetry?
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I think Dante described that in the part about Limbo.
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what a sad and beautiful ghost – “my brief story blotted
out” the line that tells us she has been waiting a long time
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Most people avoid cemeteries but I find them interesting. I often go through the churchyard in our local market town to get to the high street. There are some very unusual names on the headstones. One of my favourite places in London is Highgate cemetery. I haven’t been since I moved to Norfolk.
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Such a change has come over the countryside – sounds of traffic instead of sounds of insects. I makes me wonder how those who have gone before are adjusting to the difference.
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That’s something I’d love to know, Toni.
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I feel for this lonely spirit who waits.
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As Marlowe called it “The Big Sleep”, or Mickey Spillane with his “Dirt Nap”. You have touched on a question for the ages. Will we all spend some time beyond the veil in a Way Station, in purgatory, in limbo? No guess will suffice. We will know soon enough.
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I wonder if that’s where we are now, Glenn.
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Beautiful descriptions and imagery- especially the sound of traffic in such a tranquil setting.
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Thank you, Viv. I took that photo in a European cemetery, I think it was in Italy, where I could hear the traffic clearly.
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Great take!
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As always Kim, you are so deft with imagery and creating a mood. My heart goes out to this lonely ghost.
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Thank you, Linda.
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Lovely and melancholy. And like Linda said, your use of imagery is incredible. Beautiful writing!
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Thank you so much!
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Wonderful imagery here Kim! This is, for me, a brilliant expression of insomnia… or perhaps I am just reading my reality into it. Excellent writing… and I love the photo.
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Thank you, Rob.
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I often contemplate the after-life, I believe we transcend the earthly realm in some other state of being. I hope it is peaceful transition.
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Me too.
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So very touching.
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Thank you, Misky.
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I love the images in your poem. At least you are viewing from above, rather than below! Well done!
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Thank you, Dwight!
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A vigil, perhaps – waiting for a companion to be joined for eternity?
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That’s a possibility, Ken.
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kaykuala
where not bees but
night-time traffic hums.
Very true outcome Kim, when one gets caught in the rush hour traffic home from the office. A lot of din and cutting in and out by those impatient linger on in one’s mind. Anger still persist before sleep!
Hank
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Thanks for reading and commenting, Hank!
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Lovely synecdoche of waiting for the little sleep as a metaphor as waiting for the big one. How different are they, really? Loved the parade through late-night outside detail, as if waiting for sleep was echoed by the fated walk into one’s grave. Well done Kim.
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Thanks so much, Brendan. I would be happy being a ghost for a while, but it would become repetitive and lonely.
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