The sun filters
through the filigree
and sprinkles dot lights
upon my face
as I draw musky breath:
each draught,
humid hay,
salty, delicious.
This straw hat
was Dad’s.
I had forgotten
until I sensed his smell,
lifted it,
and saw his sweat mark
upon the band.
The scorching sun
fed desperation
and blanked memory.
Thoughtless, I snatched it
from the peg
at the cottage this morning.
I walk upon the beach.
His essence is in my head—
his hat, the lid.
