Copps Hill Cemetery

On an October afternoon I wandered through the Copps Hill Cemetery.
One of the oldest in Boston.
HP Lovecraft wrote a story About tunnels running underneath the graves.
To a hellish world.
Pickman's Model
"There were witches and what their spells summoned; pirates and what they brought in from the sea; smugglers; privateers—and I tell you, people knew how to live, and how to enlarge the bounds of life, in the old times!"
The horror.
None of a sunny autumn afternoon.
I looked for my family Brewsters Howells and Hamblins.

On the black flat tombstone
I knew none of the buried
But recognized the names

Of the dead from three hundred years ago.

Dead for centuries

But still alive in eternity.
As we get old

We forget
As we get older
We are forgotten
Except by the gravestones
Until the wind erases away the names.