Ashes

Ashes by Liz Quirke.

This poem reminds me of a damp windy day down at the river near my Grandmother's home place in Mooncoin, Co Kilkenny. I came across it by accident but the shock of the final metaphor has cut through time for me; backwards and forwards, through silt and drift nets, irrecoverable loss and the gift of love like a shadow in a candlelit bedroom.

When I die, bring me to the lake

and pour me in. Don’t scatter.

I want my toes to mingle

with the clay at the bottom.

I will become part of the sediment,

constant and forgotten.

And fish will nibble on my innards

and transport me to tables

all around Boluisce,

as a reminder to torchlight

poachers that they can never know

exactly what they’re eating.

My hair will sway among the rushes,

caressing the soggy shore.

My shoulders will fall into holes

left by bedraggled cattle

trying to water themselves.

My heart, I want you to lob

into the middle of the lake

like a stone wrapped in a letter,

where a salmon will find it

and make it its own.

All this, love, so when you sit

in the damp, my hair will

brush your hand and my heart

will graze your hook.

and the wind will carry my mouth

saying “catch me, I’m yours.”