Release

Freezing mist, kindled orange by the rising sun, rolls in waves over the river, and a silk covering of frost glitters on the rough grass.

Claggy mud sticks to my boots, making walking slow, tiresome.

The saltmarsh is pockmarked with ancient oyster pools, half-filled with murky, brackish water.

I follow a narrow track until I reach a vast mudflat, strewn with pebbles and luminescent oyster shells, and crisscrossed with lines of shimmering water like seared mackerel skin.

I open the urn, and let you slip through my fingers. The biting sea-breeze whistles up the creek, carrying you away.