Had the mountain peaks

in the distance looked the same

to him? Had the declining land

covered in snow barely disturbed

sloped in such a way? Had the sun appeared so

White while setting

As it did so now? Eleven

Years ago?

Solemnly

He pointed her in the

Direction of the

Place on the wall

Waiting behind him: the other man, the other comrade

Nervous, uneasy

Such time passed

Yet he still could not be ready to face

The monstrosity

Held up the drawing

Comparing—identical

Though scars in the clay

Were apparent now

When in the drawing

There had simply been smooth

Flawless surface

Circled in ink

The place of her lost love

Stark against the

Faded charcoal of the

Shadow of death

Drawn with frozen fingers

Knelt in the snow

Touching the wall

Fingertips questing for her lost

Lover

Pressed her ear 'gainst the wall—the spanning tombstone

As though she could her him

Breathing

He stepped up to

The sunken form of

His friend's lover—just as lost

"He was

A good man"—the only

Comfort he could give

Words fell

On ears muffled by the

Falling snow

Breath might

Have crystalised

And snowed down

On numb knees

Tears might

Have turned to ice

And stuck to red cheeks

But warm as summer it was

As though she still lay

With him

Feeling heat

From his body

Lying all night

Sleep came at an

Indiscernible time

Between midnight and reality

Sleep

Against the wall—her love's grave

Everyone's grave