On a ridge in the mist

The stone juts from the ground

Trapped by time, lichened and flaked,

A boundary, a milestone,

A child’s grave.

The clouds stream past.

Who now can think

As they thought?

Something of them

Thinks in me.

A child, a white-gowned girl,

Stares into the wind,

Wanders mad within me.

Old men speak, chilled and aflame

In setting suns,

And weep at the moon.