Chuck MacInnis

Stone Men

An overgrown track draws the hardy soul Through intruding wood to an abandoned hole Where ghosts remain Spirits of “The Sons of Martha”

Far above the abandoned pits A broken cairn, like a king, still sits In darkened stone and coat of moss Watching o’er “The Sons of Martha”

Yet a stone will rise at the village square In memory of the men who once worked there Cutting and shaping these stones of time A memory to “The Son’s of Martha”

My Guardian

I will never hear a train That I do not think of you sitting In perfect symmetry Like a shadow On new snow Voice raised to the sky Mimicking the diesel horn Pitch for pitch As if warning it This is your domain And it must not wander From its track to the north While you are here To guard me