The Long Afternoon

[Terry A]

The hills here are round 
their soft sounds are whispers upon
the so long buried in the peaceful slumber
of land in winter.        

The bear sleeps. The deer do not run or flee anymore. 
The grave digger’s daughter
is most calm.   The rich the poor
are deep underground and rain
nor sun nor stars draws forth a hand 
once gone to the peace
of rest in peace.   She throws stones
into valleys and waits for echoes
so sullenly bored of all the dead stories 

hanging like dried leaves rustling.

[Tinker]

Hi Terry,   There is some really beautiful imagery here.   The gravedigger's daughter was a kind of surprise.  I love that twist from nature to humanity.  

My favorite images: "their soft sounds are whispers"   and  "so sullenly bored of all the dead stories"

The last line came a little awkward to me, not the words, the placement in connection to the rest of the poem.  I wonder if, without the space, you offered the line indented . . .
"so sullenly bored of all the dead stories
                    hanging like dried leaves rustling.

or
"so sullenly bored of all the dead stories
                                               hanging
                                               like dead leaves
                                                      rustling"
Hope you didn't mind me letting my brain run free and tinker with your poem.  Just ideas that came to mind.  How do you think I got my screenname Tinker?  I can't help myself.  It is your poem, use or don't use as you like.  I'm just thinking out loud.

I think this is really quite lovely/

~~Judi

[Omar]

You know what, I liked it but I think it needs part 2, it seems to have a story and depth but it still vague and Uncertain. I don't know,  this description felt like a scene from a movie, like an introduction. Good job.

[Terry A]

Thanks Judi. The last line is better indented without the space and so I'll make the change.

[Terry A]

It is true that poems sometimes do better in a collection, having all the poems grouped lending some greater understanding to all. And some poems are just snapshots of moments with a certain amount of indetermination to them.  Thanks Omar for your comments.