Miss Mourning.

Rooks provide the ambient strain,
the air is crisp and clean,
not a breath, a whisper felt,
the coldness steals the scene.

Wrapped in cloth and leather bound
a figure stands alone,
here to make her presence felt,
for sins she must atone.

A tower bearing down on her,
the solitary bell,
the dawning mist draws back its veil,
this tale it will not tell.

Beckoned by gate the penitent,
white fingers tight on wreath,
head bowed low she shuffles on
frost frozen ground beneath.

And once upon a barren mound
she hangs her head in shame,
there stands a cross to bear her loss,
no time, no date, no name.