My Family motored out in an open boat,
to the bight at Cohasset Bay.
H. Donald Wilson's ashes in a bisqueware basin, crafted by his grandson
Noah Andrew Wilson.
The Pilot of the boat was Douglas Wilson, HDW's nephew,
And sheltering from the cutting wind was his widow,
Mary Louise Swan Baron Wilson (everyone knows her as Peter),
His Daughters
Edith Ramally Wilson & Anne Baron Wilson,
His son,
Bice C. Wilson,
Other grandson,
Ian Benjamin Wilson,
And daughter-in-law,
Lorraine Marion Frye-Wilson.
At the bight the boat paused, and Noah gingerly
Released the basin of Don into the edge of the Atlantic,
Among migrating Blues, Eels
And Stripers,
Eel Grass, Lobsters meandering
Crabs scuttling.
But that was years ago now, and HDW's ashes are now in every ocean -
As they always were.
The only memorial that stands for my father is an Oak Tree,
Not far from the banks of a river many don't know exists
The West Branch of the Mamaroneck, as it, in turn, meanders
Past the City Dump.
An Oak tree planted by his neighbors amid proclamations from local legislatures,
On a misty day, I think in the fall.
Just yesterday I visited the tree,
at the intersection between eternally secret paths everyone walks,
Where of a fragrant summer's night,
Teens rendezvous, and
Dog Walkers linger in the gloaming -
And leave when the mosquitoes arise.
Just yesterday I plucked inch high
Garlic Cress and Poison Ivy
From the base of the Oak,
Then planted a spiral of Lilly of the Valley
Whirling around the mound surmounted by the Oak
A Jewel of Violets at the head of his plaque, amid a
Crescent of False Solomon's Seal (that seemed true to me).
From the side of the road on the hill above
I gathered cast off tree parts
Relics of the March Storms,
With these segments of pitch pine
And weathered rough sawn planks
Buttressed by rotting logs
Garden debris dumped illegally
One random cobble stone,
I built benches
Buttressed by all of these
Placed a single stump
Just so.
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