I'm moving into a scene that's a pilgrimage to Heather's unmarked grave and so want the language to reflect mournfulness. I've gone for some ambiguity and poetic license here too. Thoughts on that would be welcome too.
Sleep came in drifts that night, sometimes the mournfulness of cherry blossom across the stone flowers of the dead, and other times the raking cold of snow buffeting against barn doors. They prised open weary eyelids in the darkness before fatigue sent him back to them.
Arthur had no time for food in the morning, his gullet and gut could only tolerate strong coffee. He sipped at it until the cup was empty. Fuel for his tired mind, nothing more. After a reassuring kiss on his cheek, Arthur set off for the cemetery. A shadow without a sun, he began his pilgrimage, clouds brooding like a remnant of the night.
Soon, the churned grit and mud of the dirt road gave way to the carefully placed stonework of Darrowdale’s thoroughfares. The first spots of rain dissolved on the sandstone buildings, dripped from thatched roofs and tittered on the many parked cars along Brook Street. From left to right, the village dipped and turned, respectful of the landscape, without spite.
Arthur stopped after he crossed Brook street, watching the water chuckle and slosh along Dressman’s brook. Regardless of the overcast sky and the light rain, it was too picturesque to imagine such a deed taking place here. Lie or no, some part of him would be more than willing to forgive, but not today.
He could make out the edge of the cemetery as he crossed the arched, stone bridge over Dressman’s Brook, shy of the whitewashed wooden church that dominated the scene. It’s tall steeple, topped with an engraved cross, cast a long shadow across Shacklton Road, as the sun peeped briefly above its rooftop and bled in a wounded sky.
The heavens closed around it as he walked past the church, the raindrops more persistent, the belly of the clouds thickened and bruised. Still, he was unhurried though. A storm would be a fitting escort he thought, as he picked his way between history and grief, fresh flowers and dried remnants, the remembered and the forgotten. Until he came upon the willow tree and an unmarked grave.