What I remember of the day is white.
White as the keening of the windscreen
wipers under the blizzard at Seaham.
White as the taste of a snowflake fallen
through salty air. White as teardrops
of wave-soothed sea-glass. White as a plume
of his bones made ash, fluent on the cold
air as a gannet, which is the same colour
as a white flag. White as the noise the telly
makes at night when she falls asleep again
in his chair. White as the dream she still has
of the Limerick lace she sewed into the dress
she wore on their wedding day. White as the gaps
in his mind her name had long since fallen through.
*First published in The Irish Times August 2017