Not even standing room, so we gathered outside,
Unconscious of the cold.
Hundreds of people, well known faces,
Yet each of us alone.
Hands touched my back but all was numbed.
I couldn’t see,
It didn’t matter.
All was broadcast to us by speakers,
The penultimate moments, projected to the world.
I focused on the backs of heads in front
Of me, following the voice.
The scent of flowers passed me, made my stomach churn.
Mother pulled me round and we followed
Could it matter?
Didn’t I see?
A hillside, lined with people,
Each to their own.
Tight against the graves of others,
All faced one.
I stood below his open grave.
Hands deep in my pockets,
Feeling the cold now.
Sounds of mourning fled the hillside,
No longer a need for speakers,
I searched for friendly faces,
Not brave enough to look to those i knew best.
I found two, far up the crowd,
Recognised them well, they projected the hope.
The relief was great, softening the loss.
It was Winter Equinox
Growing dark, on the hillside lined with people ,
For one it would be the last time the darkness grew.
But the hope was there, within us all,
The people on the hillside.
See, it matters.