Sky Goodbye
I didn’t see you at the funeral.
You weren’t there.
I believe you escaped in a shaft of light
streaming through the stained glass window,
before the organist went all stops out
and speakers leant too long on the pulpit —
as far away as possible from all that palaver.
Out into the crunch of snow,
skis over one shoulder,
you tramped to the highest ridge
looking down on the village
as mourners now traipsed towards a hall
for hot scones and a gabfest
and appraising the last slope
before daffodils poked through the thaw,
you adjusted your goggles, took a deep breath
and propelled yourself
into air sweet as heaven.