A Portuguese Graveyard...

The ship, riding swells, is anchored in the bay,
pilot’s late, yet time in shipping is essential; or
perhaps, I’m mistaken; it’s all a game, seascape
as seen from a cemetery. Visiting her mother’s
vault; a hole in a wall, glass-door, a grim coffin,
a sepia photo of the deceased, in a rust striped
frame; dry bones and peaceful silence
She opened the chamber’s door, began dusting,
the photo and the coffin while humming softly
as to a child. So much light here and colourful
plastic flowers, it would be nice to sleep here,
if not today, to have a dutiful daughter coming
every spring came, tickling my old bones, while
telling me about ships anchored in the bay