Elegy

There is no grave at which to weep,

just ashes in the brickwork deep

to shelter from the mistrals’ breath

the only home for him since death.

Yet there is not where he’ll be found

nor yet in ashes underground

this man no sanctum could contain

but find his tears in summer rain

his voice in forests ‘neath the pine

his breath in snowfall at compline.

Ask not then where to find his bones

when all the world’s his final home.