Scrying

 
We stood at that ruined place
the church by the river
with the fine view
It felt better not be alone
for I could feel them all
I still can now
so heavy on me
their weight of souls
 
I wanted to be secret
so no-one would see
as I tore out heartwood
from that yew
standing on their burial pit
to free
children, husbands, wives
all stricken by the plague
and piled up
twisted and forgotten
 
That night
when the flames rose
I heard their singing
and as the green timber
spat sparks
I watched their faces in the smoke
stretching into the sky
 
I felt them
I felt them fly
all the way home
to peace.