Guardians of the graves

Our graves are made of rough stone. Gray as a rainy sky.
Scattered across flowery meadows like watchtowers. Shine as fireflies across the sleeping fields.
Forgotten, peep out of the tall grass. A lonely lizard slides down them.
Guardian of dead souls.
The viper raised its horn and flicked the tongue. Lichen stretched over the carved cross.
Bluebells sprouted next to it.
An old woman picks thyme and wormwood. Bent over like a bundle of hay.
Raven pecks the grain.
The wind howls through the field in winter. Snow covers everything when it gets cold. Wolves overlords of the full moon.
Calling to the pack. They warn the gullible. Deter the armed.
Soldier's boots will not step on it.