Father and Son

Down at the crematorium there is a grey metal box. Inside in the furnace bodies burn, bamboo-slats are pushed in and a frazzle of grey hair aureoled in fire. There where love, skin and bone are reduced to ash memory stamped upon history obliterated. Where I burnt my father There the torch is transferred There when you turn to look back There is nothing but the black tunnel of time, a great big wind of dark and only the dark to run to. And the torch and the howl to show the way.