“The Salt Pond” by W.S. Merwin

Mid September my dead father’s birthday
again by the low shore I watch the gulls fly inland
white gulls riding a knowledge older than they are

by now you are eighty eight and need nothing old friend
twelve years in the white sky out of the wind

once more at the end of summer the first map of the coast
looks out from the wall
a shadow imperceptibly darkening
the names dissolve across it
white clouds race over the marshes

the gulls have gone with their age
I know the wind