The snow falls like an afterthought.
Church shoes struggle for grip on frozen ground and
Crimson lips stand bold against ashen faces.
Grief has donned a thick black coat and a pair of red rimmed eyes.
He takes his place among the mourners,
Standing to attention in the slow procession.
The air around him tastes like ashes.
Chapped fingers curl inside thin gloves,
A memory falls loose from their grip.
The battered black box is a weight on grieving shoulders.
New hands will take this from them,
Pushing back the veil of winter
And seal with a summer’s kiss.
The bell will toll.
The casket carried, the burden buried.
Weak sun will wash the tear stains from their faces.
There will be nothing left of the one they buried
‘Side the bluebells that grow at his feet.