I've never looked at them.

They're in a cardboard box.

Very environmentally friendly -

you'd have approved of that!

 

I can't scatter them.

For that, I'd have to touch them,

feel their texture,

let them pass between my fingers.

And I can't do that.

 

I remember the first time I saw them

at your mother's flat

on a high shelf.

I didn't want to go into the room

but I saw them through the doorway.

I couldn't cross the threshold,

not that first time.

 

Then, when I did

I had to reach up high

and lift them down.

Quite heavy for such a little cardboard box.

And I cried and I said "hello darling."

And I put you back on your high shelf.

 

Later, a friend brought them down to me in her car -

I couldn't bear to take you on the train

when the last time, we would have sat together

looking forward to seeing the sea at Teignmouth

and our favourite, crossing Brunel's splendid bridge.

And home to Cornwall.

 

And when my friend arrived

I went out to the car

and I carried your ashes so tenderly

like a mother with her newborn baby.

 

All six foot four of you,

your twinkly eyes, your straggly hair,

your slender legs, your bony feet,

your exquisite strong long hands,

your quiet voice and your amazing smile,

your limitless brain and your tender but faulty heart.

All in that little cardboard box condensed.

 

I wrapped the box in turquoise cloth.

It's in my bedroom with your compass

and your favourite bear.

I don't think that I'll ever scatter them.

I know you'd rather be with me

than anywhere.