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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