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.

Published by Inking Prose

Writer & Poet

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