Go to the garden gray with granite cobbles

where daisy, fern and dusty miller wince

in sun, where indolent lilies lean and bud.


Go down the footpath to the blue-walled pool

where excellent MacCulloughs splashed and swam,

blank to the sky as the crater of a bomb.


Dry the pool, dry concrete edged brown.

This is their dust; and yet aloft stained glass

in the vast cupola—where long ago


MacCullough’s children laughed and cried with joy—
blooms in the sun at noon this noon that comes
to wipe each shadow from deserted walls.

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