On a lonely hill and a tall old tree

shades a stone marks her memory

Disease or disaster it does not say

this carven stone

placed nineteen seventy-three

loving mother sorely missed

a young wife under the stone

a quarter century not quite done

A young form crouches in the dusk beside

a new stone

marking death again

Papa  Murderer

in the blood now drying

scrawled on the stone

answers the mother's dying