The air is sombre: ancient Yews,
darker now than in summer, murmur sad elegies;
and frozen grass seems trapped in time
like those who lie beneath it's emerald haze,
their tongues now stilled and silent in death.
No dead men's wraiths frequent this place,
only memories of the living:
of winters past and moments shared
in love, with these now unpicked
to bare bone by worm and insect,
their tender touch long gone, yet craved still
in the endless spiral of grief.
Silence grandiloquent inner dialogue for a moment
and through half closed eyes, stare
into the depths of wreaths and bouquets:
can you not see the millions of tears that glitter
between each leaf and petal, not feel the agony
of the bereaved heart that howls
in living damnation, it's black veil
flitting shadows across the edge of vision?
Feel the shivers running down your spine.
It is for these we should weep - these mortals unable to see
the loved ones their starving hearts mourn
in the haunted spaces of home.