Ashes. So light a sound, the word
said - spoken discreetly -
ought to disperse the substance.

Who would have thought a blue sack
had so much ashes in it?
Minutes to empty. Tall trees

darken the grass. A thick, pink
clinker pours and pours.
The gash in the plastic flaps.

There is a little puffing up
of pink clouds round her son's feet,
settles in cracks in his boots.

This is forbidden, no doubt.
We nudged each other off
the mapped paths, the famous dead.

She will lie bulkily, atop
some unremembered beloved. Later on
rain comes and bears her down.