Classic Poem

No new snow shrouds the ochre fields
on this the last December day.
Twelve months hence the last page yields,
and given up, your ghost turns grey.

Mist walking on the onyx river,
crows parting chalcedony clouds
embrace, forgive your heart or liver,
and bear your deeds into the wilds.

And now there's only purple flame,
grave moss that signifies release,
a poppy underneath your name,
or just a candle, spilt wax, peace.