Green Moss on Gray Old Stones

A cloudy height, a cold wind's bite,

Green moss on gray old stones.

Memories of fires bright

That warmed forgotten bones.

-

And here I stand in ruins grand,

In halls dead and old,

Houses made by ancient hand,

Stories left untold.

-

What words were said? Whose hearts were wed?

Whose secrets did they keep?

Who broke the bread? Whose tears were shed?

Where had they lain to sleep?

-

Down in the field I see their ghost,

Whose hair is full of gray.

This place was one they loved the most,

On some forgotten day.

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A waking dream this seems to me,

As I touch the mossy stone.

Their lost lives come to be,

Through secrets seldom shown.

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People ask me, "What do you see,

Upon this bleary hill?"

I say with total honesty,

"This old place whispers still."