The shade of the old willow blanketed the lawn.
You sat in its coolness, quietly whistling,
I, a child, asking you
To tell jokes and make funny faces.
The shade must have felt good on your
Cancerous bones, skeletal hands:
You looked content, swanlike
(As those that peck at Stratford),
Whistling away your final days.
Stories of the plane you flew,
Swooping, roaring through the war-wrecked sky.
But I only ever saw you
Swooning silently in your chair.
Eighty years! Old!
Though the moon took a thousand
To climb into the night.