You might from my recent posts think I have a bit of an obsession with death. I would have to confess that my personal philosophy tends toward a certain nihilism but it is more that I view death as the last great unknown, the leveller that renders all of us equal regardless of wealth or wisdom. I always find it difficult to objectify my writing, good and bad are such subjective terms and only the individual reader can judge for themselves whether a poem has any artistic merit for them. However, I feel that this poem is one of the few pieces I have written that I am personally happy with, that I can come back to and comfortably enjoy again and again. Ironically, it is a poem that came to me complete and almost without effort. I remember a vivid dream in which I sat at a typewriter and wrote the whole poem almost word for word as presented here. I also had the foresight to keep a pen and paper nearby so the fragments of my dream could be recorded before they were lost to the conscious mind. it was something that had never happened before or since unfortunately!

Alone in the Graveyard

Through the rain's curtain a shadow I could see

A black coated figure all huddled in misery

And as I drew closer her face I did notice

All drawn with the sadness and pain in her heart

Her eyes, like the sky, had known beauty in summer

But now they seemed grey and were filled up with clouds

The dim sunlight glistened upon the black gravestones

The rain smeared the make up that ran down her face

She told me a tale that was joyful and tragic

As she bent down and laid flowers on the grave

The flowers were roses, their petals held raindrops

Each blossom as red as the blood in your veins

The call of a raven I heard from a treetop

Her thoughts interrupted the story did end

Blinking the tears from her eyes as she left me

Alone in the graveyard chilled by what she said