Celtic Cross

In the hills above Strabane
in a little churchyard there
stands a Celtic cross of stone
That marks my father’s parents’ grave.
The Day is raw, a spit of rain
The wind sweeps low across the plot
In time their names will disappear.
The force of nature serves to blot.
Still the Celtic cross endures
long after the inscription fades,
to be a sign of what they were,
when of their names, no clue remains.

poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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