Ash is blowing away on history’s wings.
No more the daily product of fire, swept
Together on bended knee from soot lined
Hearths; Cinders is a figure of folk lore;
Loved ones are gathered to be thrown to air;
Stains and foul odours are no longer purged
By ash; no more does ash shine the silver.
But it still sticks to woeful Wednesday.
Its pall can still douse the pride of lost hearts.
With the embers of vanity painted
On brows, bowed before the unchanging force
Of time, we still hope for transformation