July 24, 2010

A choir (Welsh somehow 
for after all that’s what they do) 
came around the side of the trees 
or above them this morning

singing in a simple voice 
as I stood on the deck 
of this garden’s ship 
adrift alone undressed

on the wet wood of a sea spray 
that had rained down 
across the early daylight 
New England land

(apologies for the repetition 
but it should never be 
a father’s birthday 
so soon after his death).