Scrape of cold clay,
prepared for the ashes,
Letters, brittle with
age, slipped from yellowed
Envelopes and
scrunched, dropped into narrowed
Earth readied for
burning. Fragile flashes
Of reluctant flame,
breathed to vital fire
By a chill wind,
consuming those love lines
That twined through
to golden years. Time resigns
All passion,
eventually, to the pyre.
Blaze begins to
dwindle, paper being charred
To brittle black
gossamer. Callous blade
Of a spade and flimsy
embers are laid
To rest. At the end
the deed wasn’t too hard.
And space enough
still for the final wish,
Fine tilth of a life,
indifferent ash.
Dave Alton
