Ground deep in cold, cold stone, CASSIDY,
chiselled long ago by craftman's hand
on a Celtic Cross.
Slowly a finger traces each etched letter,
a vivid nail gouges green velvet moss
creeping into, living in, CASSIDY,
corroding the name as sly worms long
past corrupted the dead Cassidy.

Unvisited for many years have lain
the remains of Cassidy.
So long since he dropped to rot,
decompose, return to ash and dust.
Below lies Cassidy as bones.
Lonely Cassidy as white, white bones.

James Mills

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cassidy/