25 January 2013
On your own, Sitting with your back, To a gravestone. Pitch black, Snow falling, The dawn chorus many hours away.
The dead make good listeners, They appreciate the time spent, They don't criticise, They don't cut in, They don't need you to write anything, But they like it when you do, And leave a copy, Pinned, On a gravestone, like a note to them, Like a requiem.
So tonight, this is for: Victoria Elizabeth Right 1902-1923
I didn't know you, You are from a different age, But I wanted to offer you this written page, I have a thought of you, 90 years on I want to send you my love, Show someone remembered you, when you were gone. Twenty one is a hard age to die, I hope I never see death in one so young, My thoughts are with you on this old, dark night, dear Victoria Elizabeth Right.
And as I pin this verse to her resting stone, I sense a shroud fall over me, a chill to my bones, A breath of the dead, an elemental sigh, And here, Death makes it's timeless face known to me, Within this curious dark realm of gravestone poetry.
Victoria Elizabeth Right 1902-1923 • Opuss № I