A poem a day keeps the cobwebs off my keyboard.
|The moon, it fell to earth that night
its eyes fixed upon one spot.
No comfort in its borrowed light
as it shone upon that plot.
The tears of one who loved too well
anointed the spaded ground beneath.
The moon lent no warmth to one now cold,
no solace offered for a widow’s grief.
When she had poured out all her heart,
emptied of love, it filled with despair.
She threw herself down, and broke it apart,
embraced his grave, left her spirit there.
The Celtic cross stands still and tall,
a graveyard soldier guarding ghosts,
of those interred within those walls,
under whited stones, or iron posts.
Over churchyard gate, the moon falls low,
hangs its head, as if in shame.
Spills itself in twisted shadows,
borrowed light, extinguished flame.