Dad’s final bocage,
above the vast Pacific,
blue-grey forever.
The rocky hillside
of Palos Verdes, pale stone,
miniature pines,
the artificial
falls. Day and night you labored,
perfecting it. Ache
of beauty. Between
us and heaven-and-earth once
threatened by wild fire:
you hosed down the hill-
side, the Eucalyptus wind-
row helped save the day,
the peacocks screaming.
You were the artist, beside
yourself, your last stand.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Related
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
View all posts by Tom D'Evelyn