My mother is reading gravestones. The wind 
is ruffling through her red-gold hair, her coat

is blowing in the English air. We’ll stay
in Lyme-Regis tonight; we’ll walk the Cob

and drink Thomas Hardy ale in the pub.
To my mother, Dorchester is simply

a market town, and she’s in the market
for small souvenirs—useful household things

to bring back, wrapped between layers of socks
and sweaters, a memento of this trip we took

when old names in a churchyard reminded
us of everyone we’d ever lost

or left behind, even though we turned to smile
at the camera in my daughter’s hand.