We drove to the mountain with
his ashes in a shoebox by my side.
It was perfect as the sun began
to fade in the winter light.
We climbed the platform
and down below
Phillip Glass’s
‘Offering’ rang out.
It was perfect as perfect is,
and when we got to the top,
I recited a poem from Clouds,
You can never go home.
My friend tipped the ashes
out and they shimmered
like curtains one after
the other.
And the light was ever
so small. A spark of
life for the approaching
night.