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