It was barely dawn in those hills where I lived

When the light of the winter sun struck

Stained glass, and stone walls, and oaks asleep

In the black-edged forest. It was

Barely dawn as thin rays of light
crept in

Through the dusty windows of the chapel. That's how day rose

Over the hills, when the shadows seemed to recede.

And yet, when the hearse passed through,

Birds were silent in their trees and leaves crackled

With frost. Each month the stone rows grew

Longer, still squares choked by weeds.

Not even hope stayed there between the

Tattered pews and the wall's crumbling mortar

And the bitter caw of the crow.