There is that incandescent path down to the sea -
I walk it certain Sundays, when I can bear the light.
The grey raincoat we bought on the street in Zagreb
has lost its buttons, so I hug it to me in the wind.
I met your sister in the lane today, outside the cafe.
She held me, then rainy-eyed, she turned away.
She'd been to Mass, she said, but the
sage and lemon morning had confused her.
The painting we bought, that last day, on the Strand,
hangs in the hall, by the table with your books.
It survived the boots, and the guns, of November.
On these incandescent Sundays, I realize I didn't.