While it was
still dark
the
smallest something began.
The match flares;
its flame might
catch,
or it could
sputter out, unfulfilled.
In the shadows
ahead of the rising sun
a woman follows
a path through the trees;
hope has
abandoned her.
It had
been her painful duty
to watch
the man die;
she knows that
the darkness is thick and heavy.
Alone she
comes,
with only
the soft glow of love
to guide
her feet to his tomb.
Hers will
be a final act of devotion,
a sacred
ministration to one she worshipped,
even
though he cannot know it.
As she
comes near to the place.
the
beginnings of the dawn intrude,
to wash
the garden with their dull light.
The shadows
grow weak and diminish,
and the
day begins to be reborn.
© Ken
Rookes 2015
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