by Maria O'Connor
She stands alone in the bare meadow,
The stubbed grass, sharp beneath her feet,
Her long skirt shivers in the breeze,
As the wind blows haunting melodies 'round her ears.
In the distance a child is laughing,
So far away it seems a dream,
Dream of days in pleasant meadows,
Where warm winds blew a sea of rippling green.
The wood in which she played in as a child,
Bordering one corner of this field,
Is now a place where scavengers can hide,
Hooded rooks take 'way the old oak's pride.
She turns and looks,
And the wood fills with weed,
But then it falls, a tear of joy,
As a lone angelica blossom drops its seed.