Memories come and go like whispers in the wind.

But still life goes on.

The stone that rolls down the hill , still gathers no moss.

But with each revolution a little more of it’s surface is ground away,

leaving a trail lying upon the ground.

The scent of the whisper of memories , lingers in the air.

It follows the trail made by the rolling stone to become a journey.

A journey that no one will follow.

Yet everyone shall travel it’s path.

So to , the stone as it rolls , is guided by those that traveled before hand.

And it cuts through the wind , to spread the memories of the past.

To all those that are yet to be.

By Tracey M