The smoke that rises from the pyre
spirals lazily upward,
then drifts along the shore
on a slow east blowing wind.
There are no drums or trumpets
to herald the passing of time,
merely silence crouching like a scavenger
in the grass along the water’s edge,
Ready to pounce when the time is right,
waiting to move in for the remains
and feast upon the coals
left when the smouldering is done.
There is neither sun nor rain
in the air this day,
just a dull grey ache in the sky
that seems befitting of the mood.
Avoiding the path on which I arrived
I turn my back and slowly walk away.
climbing unencumbered, over the rocks
of the ridge I once dared not attempt.
A scented breeze refreshes my face
as I stand with my eyes closed,
breathing in my future,
leaving my past in flames behind.
sept 2003 © Janet Reid
