Winter Flowers

From warm colours and food
we set out, the air like feathers,
a break in the pleasant mood
we hiatus for mourning's tethers.

Cold grey landscapes slip past
the car window; silver painted
winter portraits sliding fast
the silence almost plaintive.

The soft clunk of car doors
lets stems of the wind grow
leaves against my pores,
my steps are soft and slow.

Crematoriums have their own
air, enclosed as snowglobes,
no shouts or voices thrown
in the stillness; silence probes.

Flowers, left with frozen care
hang in brackets, each petal
bowed from frost and despair
in vases of dented green metal.

On the grass lie a thousand
plaques, tears in a slack sail,
their touch chills my hand,
their letters fading to braille.

When we return for leftover cake
from this cold and silver place
the colours seem somehow fake.
There is no tear of mourning on any face.

Memory

The sun shines, warm and soft
and yet still I wake, empty
under the empty bed, with the wet
knowledge that you are dead.