Beneath the yew where shadows bite, A child crept out by moon’s pale light, Through stones that leaned like broken men, He swore he’d not come back again. The apple tree bent low to hear, Its roots drank whispers, dark and clear, Of garments torn from centuries’ grace, Still clinging close to a resting place. He sought no coin, nor beggar’s fare, But treasure hoarded deep with care, A brooch of bone, a ring of gold, That reeked of secrets never told. The air grew still, the ground drew tight, The relics hummed with buried might, And though his hand was small and thin, It stirred the wrath of all within. For graves remember every theft, Each silent vow, each promise left, And eyes unseen through grass did glow, To watch the daring child below. Yet onward still he dared to roam, To trade the grave for chiselled stone, Not for his name, nor pride, nor kin, But for a soul cast out in sin. She sleeps beyond the hallowed line, No psalm was sung, no mark, no sign, Only the nettle, thorn, and rain, To bind her bones in nameless pain. So off he went with haunted prize, The market fire in his eyes, And merchants smiled with teeth like knives, To weigh the worth of buried lives. The candle flickered, voices hushed, The boy’s pale heart near broke and rushed, For shadows gathered, black and grim, To claim the debt that waited him. He fled the hall with pounding breath, Half-dragged by whispers out of death, Until the stones he knew appeared, The ground that held both dread and dear. And there he set the marker true, A shard of granite cut from rue, A gift for one the world denied, A witch with none to name her side. The wind it moaned, the branches swayed, The stars bent low, the night obeyed, And in the hush, a voice half-sung, Blessed the child with a ghostly tongue. So drink ye deep, and mark the tone, Not all who walk the dark walk lone, For mercy blooms where curses fall, And love may haunt the graves of all.
