the tips of all their branches disappear,
and those we still can see are wreathed in clouds
like smokers, lonely in a bar, nursing their beer.
This weather's not for lovers: it's too grim.
Just those alone, forsaken and forlorn
find comfort here, where foghorns sing their hymns
of loss and warning, of longing for a home.
So wise they were, the ones who designed this park,
this curving walk that leads us to the sea:
they must have known despair has a similar arc --
first down, then briefly up, and then, quite solemnly
it leads us to that edge where we must decide
to rejoin the living, or follow those who've died...
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