First thought - a picnic hamper then a Moses basket. More like a coracle robust enough for sailing home. As I threaded raffia through its weave to tie tomorrow’s flowers I looked inside, saw the sturdy frame and thought ‘I’d feel safe in here’. Everyone brought something to the church: a rosebud, dahlia, tiny cyclamen lemon balm and rosemary conkers hung on strings, autumn leaves. Soon all the ties were used. To thread some more I pushed a long curved needle through the weft just above his nose, his knees, his feet. At the time it seemed quite natural. Through the crowded nave the coffin went. Conkers bumped like fenders. My rose stood tall above the blaze of flowers. A red leaf fell. The congregation sang of faith and grief. Committal prayers were said; the coffin launched. Its ashes rest with his in a favourite wood; its smoke has risen with him.