It was dawn, and the sun was breathing
clouds of pink, orange, and white.
And some invisible man, from so very high up
was stitching new colours into the sky,
closing them tight, by spindle and thread
so all the Martians and systems and constellations
would never be seen again.
At least for a little while.
Knees crossed, coat buttoned, coffee mug steaming
I read the paper out loud, so all of the mountains
and trees
and you
could hear the news,
November seventeenth, 1968.

And I told you all about the car crash
by Sycamore Bridge.
You asked about the grand oak tree, and the pond
and the quiet, wrinkled lady who used to feed the ducks.
We talked about them for a while.
And you brought out your photographs of the park,
so vivid and green, with trout rising all around
the rainbow gasoline circles and bits of bread.
It was raining so hard that afternoon, but we walked anyway
with matching raincoats, and boots,
and smiles.
I took a picture of you and the duck lady,
who gave you a bit of rye to feed the birds.
Sometime, I’m going to read you an article
that ends with
“It was all just a dream. They’re okay,
really.”

And sometime, we’ll move from this old, rickety home
right into the city. We’ll get our own stove,
and we’ll never get stuck in the rain again
with a whole lot of bread and no feathers in sight.
But the view out here
is so empty, and silent,
and beautiful.