At a small waterfall in Aberedw

ashes are scattered and flowers thrown

through the shimmer and foamy torrent.

Much of her sinks and stains the bottom;

blooms uncaptured by the current

meander in tedious circles,

outliving at last our patience.

 

I'd imagined a floral flotilla

serenely sailing to the distance,

and the letter that you wrote

floating closely in its slipstream.

 

In death as in life she lingered:

loth to say goodbye, you considered;

or there is no place to go, I differed,

as pink and purple petals

entwined into a garland.

Only the presence of an absence;

nothing but a disappointing

end to the picnic.