The autumn leaves are falling,
On the baby in her grave.
She was just too young
And brittle,
To ever have been saved.
The colour of her skin,
Is like the frost around her,
So pale and hard and crisp.
But even as she died,
Her body found the strength,
To form a little fist.
Now the wind is calling,
As it lashes at the stone.
Calling, calling,
Calling her home.          © Will Barton 2009

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