The Wreath

Name Birth Death In Loving Memory. Like an address, on the front door of freshly overturned earth, flowers left like housewarming gifts. Grand white roses, arranged in a cartwheel of ivy, a black ribbon flickering in the wind.

Rhythmic crunching of stone, underneath, polished black shoes silenced by eleven bone-rattling strikes.

A small army of silence, moving in form

carrying the polished white box.

It floats, a boat sailing to safe harbour.

The only colour within the sea of black, red

of a little girl’s dress, swaying silently

as she navigates to her sister's new address.