A stone wall,
Left alone in a meadow,
Clothed in moss,
And left to mellow,
Tall and sturdy,
But outwardly fragile,
Battered by weather,
And left to defile,
The stone wall it stands,
Against rain, against wind,
Claiming it’s happy,
The way that it is,
But flower patches,
Creep their way up,
It’s rocky precipice,
And cover it’s top
And though unannounced,
The wall starts to bloom,
The product of the flowers,
That grew on a tomb.
