E.J.J. is 80
this autumn
sun floods across miles of great lake to fill the eye, and in the air are scents
like those along the ancient coast
an ocean east of here,
where high ensconced another eye may blink
and sweep the harbour of imperial ships
while breathing green
in a low-walled garden,
or
under the house at the heat pump
(whistling and bluing the air by turns)
lips may firm
and the string hammock sway empty,
light through its net casting
onto the tough blade grass below,
while here
in yet another county named for feckless royalty
shadows long toward this platoon of balusters
trained up one by one several summers ago,
and the house they serve (from his energy born)
honours him with emulative work
and remembers him with plaque and sign—
“E.J.J. Walters shaved here” and
“WALTERS,” an arrow in white on black,
the first beneath a mirror to loved faces,
the other guarded by a litigant rooster,
his one green eye glass to the young maple
by a corner of the churchyard fence,
its leaves shimmering through all golds radiant
in the westering light
wise as stars in a further heaven
welcoming all to the festive table.