We marked the spot where first we saw her walk
there the woods, and then to the meadow dark.
She seemed to drift or soar, in white, like chalk
of the cliffs, where ships below lay there stark,
old bones without life, bereft without spark.
The ghost though, from what hauntings had she fled,
did she seek love, did she know she was dead?
This is a septet for dVerse. In honor of dVerse’s seventh anniversary, Frank has asked us to write a poem of seven lines on any subject. I’m not sure that it’s quite rhyme royal, but it’s seven lines, and it rhymes. I’ve used Secret Keeper’s weekly writing challenge words: ghost/mark/woods/soar/meadow.