Heavy Bough I

There softly falls the rain. An overhanging bough: the mist gathers on its leaves, weighing it down, and like a comforting arm, it descends over the grave. It is always night, but a distant lamppost provides just enough light to read the stone. A child. Just nine years old. Such a short time to live. I do not know why I am brought here. Someone keeps drawing my attention to this scene. I come, ready to listen, learn, help if I can. Yet, all there is is this silent moment beside a grave, the rain falling softly through the trees.