Looking down from atop the knoll, plain white markers, degraded by weather and time, spread out uniformly like a well-practiced parade regiment.
From where I stand, the speckled fields stretch toward the horizon. Each generation, each year, each day, each hour the sward fills with more and more dead.
No flowers are left by the grave marker by surviving loved ones. No shells adorn the stones sealing in the spirits. Here they are free to roam.
The whispers in the trees carry across the field to the hilltop. Voices rising from the stones, yet never breaking their earthly bonds.
Thin spiral notebook 
This is a beautiful piece. The sense of untold stories that abound in cemeteries is sometimes overwhelming. It reminds me a bit of the Neil Gaiman book about the boy raised by the dead in a cemetery. Thanks!
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I loved “The Graveyard Book,” Gaiman is one of my favorite authors. I also love photographing cemeteries.
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Your poetry touches my heart. Thank you.
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Thank you, Kathryn.
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It’s a great capture, only competing with the post you wrote!
Very unique. Love it.
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Your words…they are beautiful. There’s something about the graveyard that humbles.
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This photo was taken at a military cemetery in Vicksburg, MS. It was huge. I got a little emotionally walking around the grounds.
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