The wooden sides and base are worn to smooth

I stare into the river water soothes

London’s first clean water from far springs

Now your ashes mingle as birds sing

I cannot take them back,dissolved to mud.

Nor see your face again as a wife should

I let you go and set you free to fly

What kind of love is this that lets men die?

As you lay, your cubicle smelled sweet.

Peaceful as a heather moor retreat

I welcome comments and criticism

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.