Shone

we are leaving behind

books that are unwritten

children who won't be born.

we are leaving

the unweeded gardens the

high pavillions of

peerless starlight

and much that is unleavened.

you may be asked in Heaven

why you abandoned in

bright midsummer the

cream colored cottage and the

strawberry vine

leaving the teacups

scattered,

taking

not even your books that opened at

the same page always

when the dormer winds blew...

was it war or famine

or unmentionable distress-

was it the witch with

the poisoned apple with her combs

of pale green diamonds like no other April...

my unregarded words?

or were you just filling time

with music only angels heard

when the sad, unaccountable distance-

 Shone?

mary angela douglas 29 August 2011/1 may 2009