The Cross
The hill is quiet under a wide sky
grass moving slow in the wind
shadows stretching far and thin
The wood stands worn and splintered
its weight long given to the earth
its story carved deep in silence
No crowd gathers now
no voices call out
only the sound of air passing through
The ground holds what it remembers
the blood, the footsteps, the fall
and the stillness after it was done
The cross waits without asking
it does not call for tears
it stands because it has always stood
And if you walk there alone
you will feel its truth in the air
a truth too old for words
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
Beautiful poem, thankyou for sharing xx