By Jasmine Price

The weather doesn’t call off for
sad occasions.
But at least the rain let
up a little, lending itself
to our eyes instead.
There wasn’t grandeur in
your ceremony, fitting,
A few words,
A few piles,
washing away in the Bala
tide like the peaks of
abandoned sandcastles.
There was no ceremony in the
Seeing you windsurfing,
skimming, a stone across
the surface of the lake.
You didn’t sink.
I couldn’t see them, the
people on the far shore
you were waving to.
Perhaps they were the glossy
firs that crowded the bank,
smiley and bristly and
But then you can’t see much through kaleidoscope
You waved a last goodbye as
the wind caught your
sails and carried you,
speckled, winged above
the vague June clouds
and into the obscured
And I clasped a stone
from the beach to
remember you skimming,
perfectly fitting,
My hand, which I suppose
isn’t so different
to yours.

Photograph: Rebecca Mulhern via Creative Commons and Flickr

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