Published: 01 Sep 2025
The sixth of July
The sixth of July
we always marked
with the dog-roses
my Dad took to hospital
to meet his first-born.
She’d be sixty-nine today,
my parents already
a hundred, and here am I
in the cool and hush
of a little round church in Italy,
Whose crossing vaults
seem to speak of this point
loves and conversations,
coincidence and actions,
have brought me,
And hold me still,
their blooms furled,
and I leave the church,
by winding golden streets
back to my friends.
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