Unable to find you in my father's book –

no flower as four-petalled, just-touchedpink-

tipped on white, clumped on a combleaf

stem –I've plumped for a made-up

name: Lily-of-the-Marsh or Wild-Grass-Rose

(maybeyou're too common, common enough)

closing your almost see-through eye-lids,

dropping your heads as soon as picked.

But good enough to lie among and feel

for the wind when it comes headlong

through the grass, or the sun when clouds

shift. Good enough for the heart to shout

it's here and here and only here I feel,

after all these years, almost at home.