From England he’d brought a wreath of poppies, which seemed to him when he thought of it to have more meaning and would last longer then any hothouse flowers he might bring. And as she was a victim of war, it seemed appropriate.
He knelt in the snow, the cold biting into his knees as he studied the grave stone, struggling to make some connection with this desolate hillside spot and the woman he’d loved.
He tried to pray but nothing came to him as the thing to ask or say. It all seemed alien and far removed from the body lying on the church floor. He had expected to be moved or saddened in this place but with a shock he realised he felt nothing.
“You’re not here my darling, are you? There's nothing here of you. Last night in the room, that's where you are. I found you there, I could almost touch you.”
He moved the dying flowers and laid the poppies in their place, their petals red against the snow clad stone.
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