31 July 2017

To Stitch Time

She finally found a way
to say goodbye.

Mum took Dad’s remains
to his favourite river,

tipped out the urn,
and he slipped away.

A sliver of cloudy light
that spread like spilt milk.

She stood there,
in the shining rain.

Quiet. Thoughts lost
in the pine-scented air,

Mum wearing an old wool coat.

It’s July but she says
she always feels cold.

And his ashes sailed the air,
surrendering themselves

to lucky stars in the sky.
Mum looks old as grey tweed.

Tired. Closure, she says.
Her grief grows like a bone.

And she keeps his memories,
a shrine, tucked away, safe

in her pocket with a hankie.
Such fragrant grief.



[notes: Sauk River, just outside Verlot. My cousin sent me a photo. He said it was a nice ceramony. A few words from Wordle 310, and Twiglet #33 “Still Standing”]

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