Canterbury Stones

I cannot not carry such stoned, monumental devices with me.
And, believe they will avert the problems that breathe my air.

Thin line.

Town line.

Country store.

It is all the same.

I carry your tomb on my back.

And, provincial problems remain.


Dredging the dirt from my soul.

I find nothing is leftover but Christmas coal.


Still I shoulder your epitaph filled with Canterbury tales.

Where it is taught,

‘God’s only son…prevails.’

If only I understood what it is, you wanted me to stand for.

I could sustain your words…more easily.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.