In the hills above Strabane br in a little churchyard there br stands a Celtic cross of stone br That marks my father's parents' grave. br The Day is raw, a spit of rain br The wind sweeps low across the plot br In time their names will disappear. br The forces of nature serve to blot. br Still the Celtic cross endures br long after the inscription fades, br to be a sign of what they were, br when of their names, no trace remains.br br John F.