"There are people here,"
She whispered, scanning
The fence line for any sign
Of a quiet observer.
She was quite alone.
There were others here,
She knew it, sensed it,
Heard them in the eerie
Stillness of the big backyard.
They'd been here for some time.
"How old is this house?"
She mused, eyeing the foundation;
Had anyone ever told her that?
"Perhaps a century or more?"
She was standing on a graveyard.
There were souls here, for certain;
This yard was a meeting place
Of the most extraordinary sort.
And there she stood among them.
They were watching her.
Would she speak to them?
No, she would hold her tongue.
Acknowledge their existence?
It was too late for that.
She knew they knew she knew.
She stared straight ahead,
Where she imagined they'd be
And half willed them to appear.
(She was, perhaps, ready for them.)
They remained still, watching her.
She turned and left them, then,
With no regret, no disappointment,
Determined to chase her own day
In the Land of the Living.
Their eyes watched HER retreating form.
