Sometimes in the lonely hours
I would walk the hill
Leaving the clamor and din behind
For headstones grey and still.
As I neared the place where the dead do lie
I knelt and bowed my head
A fool is he who visits the graves
Without homage to the dead.
‘Melinda’ read the stone I sought
Melinda, my betrothed
Only a thief as clever as Death
Could steal the health of Melinda, my love.
Often I hear Melinda’s voice
Soft upon the breeze
I answer her call of eternal love
And grow hoarse among the trees.
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Connie