When my parting breath
has exhaled all etchings of pleasure and gain,
releasing them to the blind breeze -
when the milled shards of speckled pain
have quit my cooling heart, my leaden limbs, my stale brain -
when no trace of shame or self remain -
build a pyre, pile it high,
roll my remains in a reclaimed sheet.
Weep if you will. but not for me:
when you kindle the fire my ashes will fly:
let them go as, barren, they float away:
think only of my freed soul
as it traces a trail along a veiled lane
between river and trees
home of our long-gone cloaked roams.
In the dip where our arms reached,
there shall I settle,
there shall I lie,
and there, in peace
shall I rest for a while.
©Jane Paterson Basil
Making it write 