UNKNOWN TO MAN
The church where raucous rooks proclaim
the scene surveyed by mournful eyes,
with watery sun on frost glazed slates
as winter fans its gaping maw.
Midst lancing slits of piercing light
and sharpened blades of frosted sward
where ghosts and ghouls and spectres haunt
a mattock lies near fresh dug land.
Interred beneath the stones of death
a deep and darkened resting place,
as parchment sealed with sealing wax
her secrets still unknown to man.
First proclaimed by hue and cry
and now the lonely scaffold stained
with blood which streamed
in innocence a soul now lost.
Across the square of cobbled stone
her fate discussed in taverns deep
by men who wear a different hood
and spurn the kiss of grace.