U3A Writing: Ashes
Jane Williams's painful, beautiful poem is about loss, and the consolation of memories.
The ashes were still warm after the ceremony
when I took home the simple square green box.
The burning had happened earlier
to spare the young ones.
Through the wide plate glass window
I watched a farmer harvesting summer
beside the ancient Wansdyke
we had known and loved.
The bulky ramparts wound far away
humped up between flat fields.
Timeless. Comforting.
The last hymn.
Afterward no flowers no stone.
No celebration of the past.
The box is heavy with the weight
of sifted bone and sinew.
It rests safe among comfortable blankets
beneath my single bed.
Strange hidden treasure.
Sometimes at night I dream
of building fires together where
wood smoke drifting, swirling,
curling up, smarted my eyes.
I wake to find I’m crying for that last burning
and turning, reach down my hand
to be sure that you are there.
