Beyond that church there
By the small statue of an angel
She lies still. Flowers are fading.
Moss has staked a claim
On the small stone
That holds her name.
Hours he sits and stares
Guessing what her last thoughts
May have been in the minutes
Of his brief absence.
The nurse's soft words
Haunt him still
Like an open sore
And hurt him now, as they did before.
He talks few words that touch the air,
As if she heard while lying there
Beneath the sun baked sod,
And not in some far-flung place
Beside some distant god.
How odd it seems in light of day
To come so far and only say
Few words to air and stone,
To her who left him all alone,
Who died in others' arms and care,
While he sits now, to grieve and stare.