Rituals

As we cried, I noticed the cross on the wall
and almost smiled. Perhaps, she smiled too
as the man from the undertakers ended
the proceedings with the usual incantations
that nobody had requested: Hubble, bubble
and a last amen that solved nothing.

Then the flames, the ashes sprinkled
in places she loved: the rose garden, the sea
at Lytham that swallowed the dark residue
with a single surge of a hungry wave
before the anonymous plastic container
was dumped unceremoniously in a litter bin
on the way to our afternoon tea by the lake.