On Stones

I wrote this poem after my first visit to a medieval castle while visiting Wales. More on the trip soon.

Caernarfon*

These stones rest like an old soldier,

watching his visitors come and go.

They'll sit with him, but never long

enough to wake him from his slumber.

These strangers wander through, staring

at the stones staring back. Empty

rooms delight them; they ask, "Who lived

here? Who was born within these walls?"

The ought to ask who died. The old

soldier shudders at the memory

of friend and foe; their final gasps

echoing still in his stony heart.

There are no more voices to speak

from these towers, no more fires to light

these walls and drive away the dark.

There is life, at times, but no living.

*in Welsh, f's are pronounced like v's.