Unction

I.
The sun burns a hole
through blue sky,
waves churn grey-cold, a wintry coffin.

By the time we gather one mile
past the ramp, the sky mirrors
sky. Mother sighs.

Time.

II.
We clutch handfuls of you
not fine as dust but
chunks, stubborn bone
like you, refusing to burn to essence.

III.
The wind lifts you,
sifts you fine between our fingers;
you want to leave.

With hands lent-like
we walk our paths,
children and grandchildren,
protecting our hearts,
full of you.

The wind shifts, you
loosen between fingers,
waft to the dunes,
contrary as always.

The grey sea swallows you.

IV.
Salt spray on our cheeks,
hearts to burst, we scatter
you, a final wish.
But you sneak behind
a rogue gentle wave,
covering shoes and pant hems.

You always hated when we cried.

V.
We leave milepost 33.
The sun burns holes again.
The light pains us.

VI.
I’m not sure why I favor
forgotten detritus from
God’s great tumbler: the cracked
scallop, the lusterless
oyster, the conch which
sounds a half-sea.

Perhaps because without you
I am broken upon a foreign shore.


***

Prompt: water

I imagined scattering my father's ashes in The Blues Are Running. This is how it really happened...

Peace, Linda