Blown leaves cascade across the wastelands of the dead,
past ancient stones to forgotten memories,
past the kneeling woman.
Her face turned to heavens skies,
tears seep through clench shut eyes,
falling to the earth like summer rain.

Nigh the time she bore her son, against the odds they told her,
against her age and failing health,
but deep was the longing.
The rose she'd placed on tiny mound,
praying that the angels found,
A place for him in heaven.

Alone I leave the kneeling woman, alone to her thoughts,
to her sadness,
to her faith,
for no words or friendly smile,
will stay her grief,
worn as a wreath,
in her closed eyes.

Laurie hill

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stillborn-3/