the wind remembered

nobody remembered her name or her face

or the pale of her wrists

by the edge of her lace

 

no one remembered the man or his name

who sunk his axe deep

in the wood

in the yard

in his sleep

 

only the wind still whispered her name

through the gaps and the floors

through those walls

made of wood

 

and wrung out the leaves of the trees

just like hands

to remember the others

 

the other ones who had died

there

 

two and twenty years before

and twice as long

before then

 

and twice as long

before then

 

and twice as long

before then