I saw my sixtieth birthday fall
into dark water-ring destruction
where gulls and storms install
their constant introduction.
No herons ascend, nor heave
with wet feather memory
of years I’ve had to leave
just to continue the history.
Access is gained by goodbye,
swirling years of serendipity,
by the falling birds of why
and the rest of all lost veracity.
Sixty years of passing by
chapels, graves gone and who
is left behind to fly;
it’s but me, a midnight crow.
