Stars fall over
the pass of
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