Slowly, we climbed the hill to Golden Cap.

The path was slippery with recent rain,

We carried ashes in a plastic urn.

Guilt surged us on, we said we would do this,

Although it could not make much difference now.

The trees leaned landwards in the constant wind,

We stopped. The sheep was curious and still,

Ready to run. We turned to face the land.

My husband shook the urn. The ashes flew,

Gritty and grey, they fell on gorse and thorn.

Below, the sea sucked at the pebbled shore

As it had done when he was here before.

The years between were hard, but now he lay,

Safely at last, above the curving bay.