This is where you lie, where your bones
will break like twigs underfoot.
Though we walk softly, turning our heads
away from the gesture of your headstone.

Yet already our eyes are drawn upward
to a burning sky, where you are a hammer,
striking the anvil, nothing now to forge
but an ice moon.

With every blow, we see the urgency
of your breath, contaminating the air
between us, your undefined image
casting a shadow where light should be.

Our eyes chase the rain from a long winter,
and you are hidden again, in a box,
in the ground, in diary pages where you are
the running water over indelible ink.

Rowland Hughes ©