Above the tree line of the soul,
Where air is thin and minds can float,
She sparks her memory, speaks her loss.
She moves through pastures draped in blooms.
And there she lives her ghostly life,
She watches shadows cast on clouds
Which gather on the valley floor.
She knows the turn and flow of things.
But further up, beyond her gaze,
The bells of cattle ring the peaks,
The gentians stain the petaled sky,
The crystals carve the rainbow’s curve.
Her soul awaits the season’s change,
With buttermilk and waterfalls.
The dress was blue and never aged.
She dropped it on and felt its cool
The same as on the autumn day
She bought the dress, without his say,
Her week revolved around these streets:
Her home, her walk, her week of work,
The wall which held a wagtail’s nest,
The ruts on pavements, worn by years.
She passed his parent’s former house:
The new folk kept the garden neat.
She passed the chapel, then the pub.
She felt the village watch her walk.
He never said he liked the dress:
Or if he did, she didn’t hear.
Beneath a sky of stars and moths
She trails her light through olive groves.
And silences the nightingales.
The stars are stilled, the moon is dimmed.
Her breathing draws the warmth from earth,
Her feet float soft as owl’s wings,
She leaves no trace, she makes no mark:
This is her world, this is her night
She walks amongst her sleeping flock:
They twitch and flick, but barely move.
They trust her, breathe as one with her,
She guides their dreams to mountain pasts.
She is the shepherdess of souls,
Across the streams of Epirus.