Stars fall over the pass of Drumochter, smudged grey as always, barren, desolate ‒ a world dropped dead into Dante’s Ninth. By the old railway, I cradle your urn, twisting the lid, scattering ashes that return on a wet wind wave, blinding me. As your particles speckle the yawning hills, my soul blinks behind gritted lids. Amanda-Louise Gilmour