The angel walked on bare feet scattering the ashes underfoot.

 The night sat garlanded at the shrine like a God abandoned.

 The candle burnt itself into submission yet again.

 Somewhere at the end of the evening the angel raised his head full of hair and let out a deep sigh.

 The stones had promised not to indulge in gossip or to whisper their secret.

 It was a long walk and a lonely one but she had decided to undertake the journey regardless.

 The dead anxiously awaiting resurrection.

 Over time the icy wind had gone rancid becoming stale putrid and foul-smelling.

 I stand at the door watching with eyes made of glass and just waiting.

…

Naveen Kishore, publisher Seagull Books and photographer.