Folk Song

The dew lay heavy on the grass

that covered the graves dug here

long ago, the tombstones worn and tilted,

their etched names and dates unreadable

or faint, lichen and mold filling in

the grooves carved lovingly at their parting;

those who cared enough are buried here, too,

now unremembered, unvisited, uncared for.

And in the early morning she walks,

the hem of her dress spoiled in the wetness

lingering, her feet barely disturbing

the grass she lightly treads, stepping

between his grave and her own, this specter

remembering him who left her early, taking

with him to this empty grave the locket

bearing her visage and a lock of hair

to remember her by, going off to war

to die alone on a battle field;

his body was lost and not returned,

only a letter long delayed announcing

him missing, gone the way of soldiers dying.

She died of grief, they said,

taking her own life in the weeks

turning to months before the year’s end

since the letter came; she had waited, before,

faithfully praying at the little church

reserved for the faithful, finding pleasure

in her memories and awaiting his return

to wed as they’d pledged, betrothed

before he left, one of a band of men, boys

still, taking up arms for a just cause

to secure the future he’d promised her,

a small home and a farm, a new family beginning,

sons and daughters and their wives and husbands,

children round the hearth growing and growing

old together, facing uncertainty and life

in its harshness, rising to meet it, as one.

And alone, unconsoled now and afraid, she grieved

and prayed but found no comfort, nothing

to carry her forward, desiring nothing but him,

and finding naught, they found her hanging,

a scarf stretched tight and pulling her downward

to the earth that could not hold her upright,

for he was gone and for him she had longed.

And now she wanders in the early morning dew

that lays heavy on the graves dug long ago,

her own and his among the gravestones worn

and tilted that mark where she lays, uncomforted,

a scarf tied tight around her neck

and the hem of her dress wet and spoiled,

as spoiled as her life had been for a dream

she held and for another life taken, an ideal

of a future that never came, never could.

Somewhere, too, he wanders alone in the dew,

a locket bearing her visage and a lock of hair

clutched tight in hands that will never again

hold her as he’d pledged, taking up arms

for a future he wouldn’t have, couldn’t

have, lost, alone, and searching.