See how the uncambered wings of a hummer
beat a hundred times a second
to hold it still.
This flicker of greyed light is the half memory
of a ginger plant behind a beach
thick stem clusters
cupping a small sunrise
close by Dad’s shed
corrugated rust and gunmetal blue
squinting into the early day.
He rubs his bare feet
on the sand-flecked floor, talks of England
how her green curves rise
and fall like breath
and every home has its own icebox
and each son will have his own perishables.
He relights his pipe
looks out to his ginger tree
where the hummingbird hovers, whips all its energy
into this one trick of feeding mid-air.