Timer by Tony Harrison





Gold survives the fire that’s hot enough

to make you ashes in a standard urn.

An envelope of course official buff

contains your wedding ring that wouldn’t burn.


Dad told me I’d to tell at St. James’s

the ring should go in the incinerator.

That “eternity” inscribed with both their names is

his surety that they’d be together, “later”.


I signed for the parcelled clothing as the son,

the cardy, apron, pants, bra, dress-


The clerk phoned down, 6- 8- 8- 3- 1?

Has she still her ring on? (Slight pause) Yes!


It’s on my warm palm now, your burnished ring!


I feel your ashes, head, arms, breasts, womb, legs,

sift through its circle slowly, like that thing

you used to let me watch to time the eggs.  


Tony Harrison


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