Silent graveyard.
Grass untended by the keeper.
Standing there
At the end of the six foot run.
See her crying.
Whatever the weather.
Always there.
Sense her smile.
She's was the chosen one
Young attentive woman.
Was once forever.
Now she's gone.
Ancient vase brimming with sun blanched paper flowers.
She wears a hat.
It's pink,
Faded with a garland of flowers ringing, it's skull.
Almost a summer coronet.
She sits now.
Legs crossed, she's musing.
The pen of the phantom.
Her image presented.
In mystical words.
Sometimes in pictures.
The woman is in a world of her own.
Her pen plays in time, with the motivation of the clock hands.
Turning slowly.
Each minute she watches.
Watching for the movement.
Unheard, save the quarterly chimes.
Darkness descends.
The ghost writer twists her pencil around on a whet stone.
Tomorrow shall surely come
She shall write some more.
Now the clock dictates,
Time for her to visit her cold night casket.
To wait for tomorrow's quaint wicker basket.
She knows it's coming.
She can rest in peace anticipating.
The visitor stands.
She's deep in thought.
Leaves behind a present she bought.
Brought grandma a case of colours.
Pencils, pens and ink.
Pretty pictures.
Wonderful words.
It helps her to grieve.
Finding the words her dear Nanny did leave.
Missives from a heart of gold.
(c)Livvi