These were the stones
that formed the foundation
that held up the house where they lived.

Here was the hearth
that sheltered the fire
that warmed them from through nights til the spring.

Fractured and fallen,
worn by the weather,
returned to where it began.

Gone to the fields.
Gone to the fields.

These were the stones
that were piled one by one
as they made the soil ready to sow.

A pen for an animal,
a piece from a tool,
as their lives and their families did grow.

Worn by the weather
and washed by the rain,
covered in time and concealed

Gone to the fields.
Gone to the fields.

There were the markers
that marked of the place
where they laid the dead into the ground

Here was a name.
Here was a date.
And a family gathered around.

Marred by the weather
and washed by the rain
til theres nothing left there to read.

Gone to the field.
Gone to the field.
Gone.