Black Cross

The diggers at Black cross.
Patiently waiting.

For a wreckage of grief,
winding its reason,
hilltop bound.

Ache of the slow tear,
damping,
a family’s,
wild red curly hair.

Across fields to the graveside,
wind whispering shrill.

The waltz of fading bluebells,
bend this season,
to her end.