Some pile
gray stones from the 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 the Scottish Rail
carriage 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.