Stopping by the churchyard on my father’s birthday

inspired by the poetry of Robert Frost

artwork: Marie Egner

Whose words are these I know I’ve heard?
To read his marker seems absurd,
He will not see me stopping by
Nor holding back the need to cry.

But why does conscience feel distraught?
Those pugilistic things he taught
Are summarized within that stone,
Beneath which lies his blood and bone.

I give my head a clearing shake
Reminded of his gross mistake,
No longer can he sermonize
But only rot and fertilize.

His memory, a troubled brook,
His death, my greatest piece of luck
For freedom, mine to duly keep
Yet still I fight the urge to weep.

To read the original Robert Frost poem ‘Stopping by woods on a snowy evening’ click here