My father’s ashes were scattered
In a field full of thistles
On McKinstry Road in Belfast
Whilst the final lines of Joyce’s
The Dead were read.

The wind gently lifted
His remains and blew his spirit
To the four provinces of Erin.

Those same silver breezes
Glided grains of him
Into the heavens
Where the solar winds
Carried his quintessence
Through the universe.