What is left of memory?

But a handful of ash,

Strewn along the edges of

A decaying leaf path.

No words to tell a story, no pictures, and no sound,

Just lifeless grit lined up along, this frozen winter ground.

Perhaps with care and reverence?

And with a respectful tone!

But still alone, among the trees

And marked with smooth, pale stone.

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What colour and what epitaph,

Would I much rather leave?

Than ash left handing for those who come to grieve.

An azure sparkling smile that brought a tired heart pleasure,

With a pink flashing giggle at some small treasure.

Then wildly decadent ideas, which were shared and then set free

And a ready welcome offer of a friendly cup of tea.

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