["why fade these children of the spring?'
-William Blake, Thel]
I saw the ghost of Walter de la Mare
leaning on an April curve of music,
unaware
I saw his hands of tender glass
and the thin china he was drinking from,
reflective, the dark raspberry stillwaters
of Beauty he drew up in pailfulls
the silver pooling stars
at his beck and call-
the curio cabinets bedizened,
strongholds of childhood jams-
and the apricot laughter of the cherubim
by his side.
now acorn cups half-brim from twilight rain:
the fairy feast's abandoned he complained
"Is there anybody there?"*
he said, answering his own soul, alone:
"the whispering trees of Eden."**
he wept.
they pour the ocean into a thimble-
our golden ships may founder in the moss.
there are other losses-
song is made desolate, Walter de la Mare,
long years since your flag was lowered to the ground.
rust from the muted region's flaking;
your antique tears I've brushed away.
no one's watercolour for so long---
mary angela douglas 20-21 december 2009
*line from his poem, "The Listeners"
**line from his poem, "Goodbye"
