Chessboard

Arrayed in orderly rows

Some stones oddly tilted

Others sanded by winds

And time

The graveyard

Resembles a chessboard.

But no kings or queens

Slumber here.

There is the occasional knight

Rook or bishop

But the vast majority of bones

Returning to dust

Were pawns.

Circumstance dictated

Each move

Until every piece

Occupies an eight by four foot

Parcel of earth

Within this lonesome chessboard.

No sound here

Except the sighing wind

Sifting the trees

Combing the grass

Or the sometime storms

That rumble in thunder and gust.

We all come here eventually

Having twisted from being in check.

But there is no escape from

The inevitability of

Checkmate.