A daughter's Lament
The Crone of old she Winter's well
as in the Forest she would dwell...
her Mother's grave there she sees
her broom in hand she clears the leaves,
reaching inside her inky wrap
a candle black upon her lap...
her fingers scrawny now with age
a tear runs down her Mother's grave,
as tracing the candle through time and space
the memory comes back of her Mother's face,
but eyes so wet with tears...a match to light on
this night and a candle with its flame so bright...
as Sun sets low on this Halloween
she decorates grave fit for a Queen,
then stares up into the darker sky...
many blessings on this Samhain Nigh.