The Ruin

The ruin stands alone, and deserted
The wind whistles through the cracks
and through the Great Hall windows
in cruel mockery.
And yet it picks up a sound
that was trapped in the stone walls
protected by them from time,
A few notes of a harp in a circling refrain
escaped from the prison of time
to, for a second, when the wind drops,
rest on my ears
before they are whipped away
by the wind never to be heard again.

© Libby Jones 2003

Candle

For today the candle burns
the light that is so old
burning from centuries ago
surrogate sun in the winter months
playing across scenes unimaginable
a vision of past
as the light clings to each surface
to try to find a home
it moves on
the same as it always has been
light on an altar
burning time

© Libby Jones 2003