Rose of Rapture

The weathered granite stones stood up
Like obelisks
Against the summer sky.
The names of those
Who slept beneath the windswept moors
Were faded now
With time.

Still, sometimes, she fancied
She could hear their voices yet.

It was not the gently stirring breeze
That sent the tall grass rippling,
But the plaintive sighs of those she'd known-
And loved-
Whispering faintly in her ear.
It was not the rain that fell,
But the tears of those long dead.

She did not seek them out,
But still, sometimes, they haunted her.

The villagers watched her lonely sojourns.
And thought her fey,
That solitary figure
With the hawk upon her shoulder.
They shook their heads silently when she passed
And crossed themselves,
Murmuring a quiet prayer for her soul.

And she - she walked on with her ghosts,
Remembering the days of roses and rapture.