gravestones - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The light cut through the early morning clouds giving it an almost sepia tone, casting the gravestones in that nostalgic hue. Unlike the bones that were mostly gone, the stones weathered slowly, only their lettering showing the signs of the passing of time. Delia passed them, touching each as she went by until she came to where her own heart was buried and she knelt by his grave that had been cold for many years. In that place she felt him close, yet still wished him far away. She wished him to be already living another life of love without her and that very notion broke her some more, releasing tears into the cold air. Always she rested her eyes on the stone, the stone that gave a notion of permanence to what is always fleeting, always just passing through, never being truly kept by any one except the Creator - for what he brings forth into life must always be returned.
The gravestones added to the grey. In the fog, in the light was cast dim by the promised storm, as if the colours had been stolen away. The monochrome suited Jem, for in her heart, in her soul and mind, there were no pinks or greens, no blues or vivid yellows. How often she had passed this place as a child and it had meant nothing to her? No longer. Now it was the resting place of a fragment of herself, the part that her brother took when he departed. Maybe it was safe down there with him in the earth, like a seed ready to grow in another lifetime. She touched the stone, the pillow of granite that bore his name but none of who he was. He was never grey or cold; he was the sunshine and the flowing river, the laughter and the sparkle of frost. He was the beauty that made life good and made her heart beat happily in her chest.
The foundation of the dead and memoir for the living. No matter how hard the wind blew, or how heavy the rain fell, it stood. No fire could tear it down so easily. The representation of the immortality that the soul expresses. Painted and engraved with numbers, and R.I.P.'s. The holder of love, sadness, and anger. Arising each day rapid numbers as the war of disease, emotion, and greed wages on. The final resting place, the first tragedy. Stones of death, for those alive.
Past the rickety iron gate, a legion of stone stronger than any army marched their way across the soft soil and tendrils of rusty weeds, withstanding centuries of brutal and harsh disasters of Mother Nature herself. An oozing fog, dense from curling off the still waters of the swamp, curled around each man who triumphantly drew out of the ground and stood to attention, their identification engraved into each chest. Some with curling dates and others with memories left behind of their loved ones mourning at home in the dark inkling corners. Each one, however, bore into them their names that will never be forgotten as long as they stand against the trials of time buried six feet below the dead roots.
The gravestones were places for the moss and lichen, sitting in the shadow of the great yew trees. The bodies had long since given their nutrients to the soils allowing those people of old to live on in the flora.
The gravestones cast shadows longer than they were tall, and in the fading light of the summer eve were cool to the touch. For the most part they were decrepit and Laney doubted that any had a relative alive to remember their face or voice.
They were not the gravestones of the rich, hunks of marble with gold lettering. They were concrete, sometimes simple crosses of wood – so I guess they weren't 'stones' at all. Some were scattered with flowers, others fresh dug, and to the dead what did it matter? After all once the flesh is still the soul has moved on and it is those left behind that mourn.
“How can these stones be what represents living beings? It makes no sense. Gramps was full of life, why not scatter his ashes in the ocean so he can keep on moving?”