Mourning Shadows

Sudden March winds carry high black birds drunkenly across the blue grey above the dark line of solemn cars below, between the bending trees and sullen grass, between the grey granite and dark marble pass the subdued in black and grey, and darkest blue. Each grave face tells of sadness and the loss of another fallen soul, midst polite exchanges, we wait our turn and patiently and politely queue, as we reserved British are well renowned to do. And when all songs are sung, all eulogies made, we spill into the light, where long shadows fall across the scattered wreaths, with love, across the chill breeze, surprising a twist of white, ethereal smoke, whispering through the canopy above. Our mourning shadows fall, as Autumn’s leaves, filling the dark and silent earth beneath our feet, gliding across the sentiments and moss-cloaked stone, following the worn and ancient path of the spirits of those who went before us, and are gone.