The ghostly young woman had come with the summer rains,
by the old house, dark and lost, with inky stains.
She stood dim and grey, in that white shirt,
and part of her old school uniform, pleated skirt.
She walked outside, and their were wail and cries,
as if the state of things had come onto her a surprise.
Sleeping in the dirt, where she died so long and gone ago,
waking in a half-light world that she did not ever know.
She had met a lover their, in the once grand estate yard,
telling him she was pregnant, and he stabbed her with a shard
of a broken terracotta pot, and left her and child to bleed.
He told police later: “That bitch and her brat he did not need.”
Put to the grave, but not put to rest, no resolution of loss,
there by the brackish water and laze Spanish Moss,
she cries for her death, her lost child, her betrayed heart.
No way to heaven, weighed beneath the sky, cannot depart.
And I go in the fading twilight and sweltering heat this night,
to say a prayer, light a candle, try and release her with that light,
so that the angels and God above may take that away that pain,
and all that blood and death can be washed away in the summer rain..
And I hope she can walk on that golden field, bright as the sun,
and her child in her arms, given a home to dream and run.
And nothing will ever hurt her again, only the light in a nightless sky.
I pray and offer a rite of healing, passing, as I silently begin to cry.