Winter Rye
On an evening of broccoli
And Billy Collins,
My mind drifts back to May,
When the pale-green Bermuda
Replaced the winter rye, and my father
Dutifully attended to his guests.
He poured the white wine and laughed
At little jokes, so nervous in their delivery,
And consoled her group of friends.
And so finally she was, as they say,
Put to rest, and it was quietly sound, enough so
That I found myself watching him carefully
Watching him smile at each and every guest,
Such dignity amid the Chardonnay,
Such grace among the last of the winter rye.
by Richard Fenwick
from Anon Seven Poetry Magazine, Edinburgh Scotland