Still falls the rain,
the veils of darkness shroud the blackened trees,
which contorted by some unseen violence,
shed their tired leaves,
and bend their boughs towards a grey earth of severed bird wings.
Among the grasses,
poppies bleed before a gesticulating death,
and young rabbits,
born dead in traps,
stand motionless,
as though guarding the silence that surrounds and threatens to engulf all those that would listen.
Mute birds,
tired of repeating yesterdays terrors,
huddle together in the recesses of dark corners,
heads turned from the dead,
black swan that floats upturned in a small pool in the hollow.
There emerges from this pool a faint sensual mist,
that traces its way upwards to caress the chipped feet of the headless martyr's statue,
whose only achievement was to die to soon,
and who couldn't wait to lose.
The cataract of darkness form fully,
the long black night begins,
yet still,
by the lake a young girl waits,
unseeing she believes herself unseen,
she smiles,
faintly at the distant tolling bell,
and the still falling rain.
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