Headstone in Isolated Cemetery, by Suzette Richards – image generated 15 January 2024
The trails of fog like cold entrails that wind and slither through the copse which shiver at the touch and sops. A chance at vision clearly fails. Each jutting rock: a sentinel. A greying headstone stands alone against the tones of verdant cone. My heartbeat sounds like a death knell. A silver coffin bell from ditch. As I am trying t’ place the hums; direction clear from whence it comes in variant beseeching pitch. A hand that reaches up from grave implores me for small change to buy a warming nip of hooch as I surrender will at being brave.
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