Some pile 

gray stones in fields

on top of the ridges

or even those bogs 

and marshes 

under the bridges.

These rectangled graves

with reeds and cat-tails 

swishing through

I saw from a Scottish Rail car

carried by in June.

Stones too small 

for houses or walls

to line along the bridges

fit just right 

in tight stubbled piles

on top of the ridges.

I'll go back when I'm gray 

and cracked

to gather stones and wander

through fields of hardy grass

to reap the health of summer.

But if one night 

I fall from a bridge

remember my bones;

bury me right

on top of the ridge

with a blanket of stones.