When I die scatter my ashes

Somewhere like this.

Where the morning creeps in

On the wings of a whistling

Thrush. Where night jars

Ballet with the call of the frog

Where the mist lifts

Long after the day has dawned.

Where blue hills stretch away

Eternally. There let me be

Blown in the wind. And

Should you ever feel the need to visit

Go somewhere no one can reach you

And call my name. I won’t be there.

But it will feel as though I am.