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.
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.