A spying kestrel shrieks and swoops aloud
From high grey walled crumbling an old perch.
Stubborn vines entwine in thick tentacle crowd
Winged gospel agony upon abandoned church.
Beautiful when thoughtlessness she knows
Breathing to watch old men burn old pile leaves.
Braving she tempts to pluck a dry wilting rose
Breathing its dour sad scented sorrows story.
A sapphire lost in the wood smoke of morning airs
Now bending shapely ghostly with eerie etiquette
The road, the houses seen, the old married in pairs
Promises she makes to lover another not or forget
Disturbing beauty amongst the sleeping ones
Those souls that still linger dead gut and rotten.
Her heart crawls through every chiselled word
And drifts upon solemn winds never forgotten.
No ghostly hand upon her cheap cheek cloth
Wrap up tight and study names she does learn.
These graves her flame such as to a night moth
And she mutters a promise to return to return
Hearts are moss haired churchyards autumn stone
Profound in recollections such make the odd scene?
De robed trees now chill lonely winds have blown.
To the grave bed a carpet of breathing splendours.
She returns from some lovely yet passing thought
Shy sky things dance and disappear not to the fire.
She wonders what the majestic tired kestrel caught
Succour or surrender from the leaves smoking pyre.
Hoary mists swirl to fathom lurking old familiar things
She prowls this flesh garden of sombre flesh flowers.
Not so sad yet cool and reposed with broken wings
She will roam these silent mystery flowers for hours.
