my ship seems lost at sea
and you will not bring me
the first rose on your return
or the last branch to brush
your forehead as you passed.
though I would have cherished
more than light
the least thing in your vicinity
how can I be
the first living thing that
runs to you
dearly loved to be
bartered tomorrow
when the ogre comes to
claim his due-
when my heart is a clock
that cannot be wound
and which is
so far out of the fairytale's frame now,
running down?
may the quicksilver bright
words of God be said
lest snake-bitten moments
coil round our stars-
mary angela douglas 1 august 2007
