Mother-of-pearl sky,
Calm smooth water pulled by the tideó
We had hoped for clear skies, sun
But this soft mist, light breeze
That draws us along under the jib
Moves us slowly through the cove,
past the lobster pots

How fit it is for you to be part of the cove
Your ashes slipping through our fingers
Into the sea.

That moment when the dying sun
Flares on the hulls and sails

Flashes from the ripples
Your bones, your flesh.

Lari Smith