It was here
they used to come,
he fourteen,

she thirteen,
walking to the church
for choir,

between tombstones,
along
the flagstone path,

she peasant like,
seemingly like
some Russian girl,

treading the tundra
in icy cold,
her scarf tight

about her neck,
her coat buttoned up
to chin's hold,

the dark brown hair
messed up
by the evening

November wind.
Now he stands alone,
she has gone,

some ages passed,
death and time
cutting her down

before her prime,
cancer feeding,
and drawn

and dragged
and gone
into the dark

beyond his sight
into
the eternal night.

He stands
and thinks of her,
and the place

they stood,
and where
they first kissed

beneath a full moon,
embraced in love,
wordless, hugging,

cloaked by the moon's
pushed away shadows,
young love,

searched for
and found,
but then gone,

he his way,
she hers,
the countless moons

have come and gone,
full and waning,
waxed and fled,

now he sees her,
not alive,
but in

his older,
lonely
head.