As the rains came we followed

As the rains fell we listened

And walked towards the minister,

Passing by the dark grave wherein she lies,

To drop another daffodil, a final kiss from life,

On the pale box below.

And on, to cluster round beneath the trees

Circling the family, rooted by some strange harmony

Of communion: a drifting mass lost in loss.

On the hillside, as the ...

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