I.
Four days before Christmas,
the 747 fell out of the sky,
exploded into four million pieces
scattered over hundreds of square miles,
fragments as tiny as a piece from a circuit board,
some so heavy and large
they formed an impact crater,
like an enormous scoop of earth
carved by the hand of a giant monster.
It’s only a small diversion
on our journey to Glasgow,
just about fifteen miles off the M6 roadway,
along green fields and pastures
past rock walls, sheep, and cattle,
and in a way
it feels like a pilgrimage,
although we have no personal connection
to anyone on the flight,
but since we are so close
and may never be near here again,
it feels like the right thing to do.
II.
Through the black iron gates
of Dryfesdale Cemetery,
we walk on gravel pathways
past rows of old tombstones,
many eroded, covered with moss and lichen,
as we slowly make our way
toward the Garden of Remembrance
where three immense slabs of gray granite
rise above an ancient brick wall,
the names of two hundred seventy people
etched in black letters.
Sheltered near a hill, surrounded by trees,
the cemetery is quiet,
but cut flowers, potted plants,
assorted small statues
and a bus of visitors
who arrive just as we are leaving
confirm that, even thirty-seven years later,
we are not the only ones
who still remember.
