From Sheffield

 

Day Five

Outside the chapel of St. Bede

The wind was a high-tailed Arabian

Weather hats would depart post-haste

Whipped by raven coat-tails.

My father, in the Garden of Remembrance

Was a little boy leading. Uncertain. Sombre

Among the many little ash-piles

The night's mad work of a vampire slayer.

'Til, beneath a cherry tree, the urn tipped

And to the wind he surrendered her ashes

But for a flurry to hawk and - spit -

Them right back onto his best black shoes.

Cut to mourners among the ash-piles

The wind cackling 

Us rolling our eyes.