A Skeleton of Pottery
Splintered gold carpets the ground at her naked
feet. Stars spat from skies above crashing
down to carve out craters in the earth, barren.
She crunches memories once perfect between
her toes - the past squelching-squashing
in meadows bogged with rain and night-time tears.
His ashes, once held in an urn, float
now over a field, let out to pasture. The vase
cracked by her own hand, a widowed hand
grieving. It is said she walks under the moon
searching for those broken pieces. Grasping at
grass. Anything to meld his mosaic back together,
her palms the kiln moulding him into a frame,
a skeleton of pottery.
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