Epitaph

I have sat on the one treed hill,
Have seen
Too many births,
Too many deaths.
Too few lives.
Yours were not so special.

You trod the earth, knowing
The ocean and western breeze
Would be your resting place.

By rights, you died
In war at twenty,
Of shame at thirty,
Of drink at fifty.
But the devil is good
At looking after his own.

You choked me with ashes,
I will drown you with tears.

Rest in peace.