Late at night, gulls fly across the fat, grey sky and cry your name and early morning rain, renewed upon the roof, overflows the spouting choked with leaves and I bleed and bleed. Your sisters don’t speak of you so much and every year your nearness seems to them a foreign thing caught in photographs. My memories too are faint and out of date, as if you’d died. Your little brother says your name when I try to make you live for him but you are flat and framed and years and years away. I wonder how I’ll say to you what I want to say – I imagine beer garden drinks on some gorgeous summer’s day – but these coastal roads are wet with rain and solitary cars and the wan light of street lamps and, although my life now is as wide and bright as any frangipani tree, when I look your way, I cannot see this long morning giving birth to anything that shines. There are parents whose children die and take all life with them, so I can’t complain. You’ve nearly finished school, you’ve grown, I’m sure, loved already. How were they for you the years from eight to eighteen? For me, they are wide enough to steer a ship through, deep enough to contain, beneath the cresting waves, dream upon dream never made. The white bones of sailors who have sailed such seas lie amid the coral clean like the souls of children sent to Limbo and their song’s the same, sung sotto voce, I never saw the rocks, never saw the rocks.