​There on the hill,
overlooking the bay,
a garden of bones
that always grows,
yet withers day by day.

There on the hill,
in sunshine or rain,
untold stories,
disappointments and glories,
the joys and the pain.

There on the hill,
seagulls flock,
hovering in formation,
standing amid the stones,
facing toward the docks.

There on the hill,
alone, I wondered,
if you lie beneath my feet,
no reconciliation sweet,
forgiveness torn asunder.
M. Zane McClellan
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