Wilderspool Causeway

You used to celebrate voices on the wind,
but now yours is the one drifting through daydreams
diffuse as the notes in a thousand earphones.

Your face is in a cubist montage,
now in craft brew buildings, the depths of sleep
or a garden centre in Pontardulais.

Surveying snow against black beyond midnight
the earth contains in its six foot depths,
ashes are scattered among the Tuileries, out at sea

or in odd garden patches, air and rime.
So there are merits of the fixed and dispersed in time:
headstone and empty urn on the landing alike.

But nothing resolves so when you say they ‘live on’
I can only assume you mean that they died.