There is probably some place

to get an ice cream sundae

so good that if you have one

before the age of seven

the world will always be

that little bit more berry-like,

icier than love itself.

And on the shores of the lakes

in those various home towns

the insects praise your tans

and herons fan your hair

and beavers build their dams

to honour local heroes

who did their bit in the war.

(They learned to do their bit

at the excellent public schools.)

And on the festival day

a chosen girl and boy,

crowned with vines and ribbons,

proceed up the main street

flanked by functionaries

with sashes and bass drums.

In the civic parks

of these overheard home towns,

on the margins of their lakes,

at approximately three o’clock

on every festival day

the callow girl and boy

recite in one voice

from a piece of paper

a formula of words:

a hymn to continuity,

a prayer for anonymity,

a blessing of the space’s

interchangeability

with other places with

their own ice cream and lakes.