Drumochter

Stars fall over Drumochter pass,
smudged grey as always, barren, desolate,
a world dropped dead into Dante’s Ninth.

By the old railway, I cradle your urn,
twisting the lid, scattering ashes
that return on wet wind, blinding me.

As your dust speckles the yawning hills,
my soul blinks behind gritted lids.