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).