Yesterday was the traditional end of summer
And in a thirty-six year old local tradition
For the Labor Day Holiday, a toy boat regatta
Was held down at Rosebery Bay. Five or six
Homemade boats competed, a turnout
Made smaller by the aging of the community
And the fine weather tempting families
To do more independent things. A handful
Of small children, a handful of their parents,
And a cluster of maybe a dozen veterans
Of the early years in the eighties, when this
Was more of a soused party than a picnic,
When they had been younger than a number
Of the young parents gathered today, racing
Their own creations and not on behalf
Of their kids, either. Near where the wreck
Of a century-old barge moldered in shallows
The little group sprawled and made jolly.
Everything was ending, not only this summer,
You would think to hear the grown-ups talk.
The few kids didn't care, didn't really care
About the boats or the race. None was older
Than seven. Only one had contributed
Significantly to his family's entry, a driftwood
Tri-hulled catamaran with a square sail.
(The shape of the sail had been the boy's
Idea, and it won him two out of three races.)
After a couple of leisurely hours, a winner
Of the Commodore's Cup was declared,
There was a bit of clapping, another boy,
An awkward seven-year old, was draped
In the captain's hat and coat with epaulets.
Later, daughter and I went down to the lake
Closer to the cabin for a late-afternoon swim
Only to find the summer neighbors' boats
Already gone from their moorings, the vast
Shimmering of the lake in the warm, late sun
Clean, empty. I will never again, I thought then,
See any of those people, this lake, that event
With its honorary bottle of rum inscribed
Like the Stanley Cup with every past
Winner's name--or, more precisely, they likely
Will never again see me. Other friends
Around the lake were pulling up stakes,
Even longtime year-round residents, but
We made a game of toasting to next spring,
And who knows, maybe the Regatta will run
Years more, again and again. That was yesterday
Now, and so what did today bring? Another
Postscript in the unending chain of the same.
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