Blake

[to William Blake]

I saw you walking

the hills of green.

angels on either side of you, conversing

and cherry-bought bells resounding

in the dove-sought skies such flame-tinged

clouds appearing:

yes and the fleece of

skies that you loved once-

the cirrus roses...

you were so happy with an ink-stained smile-

peeling a scroll of topaz from

a frayed coat pocket,

meant for the martyred poets.

you said: don't cry anymore

all consternation's fled, don't cry,

no rose is dead.

art is a shining ship, delivered:

the choken river's spanned.

the mocking charter's been revoked.

they hoped your vision was a sinking sun

marked by three crosses on a stolen hill,

but the day is a flower endlessly fluted,

and cut in crystal now

where tygers kept their radiant promise-

where darkness is banished

to a farther castle and the

face of the Lamb is so revealed

whenever we are speaking in our

sheer unfiltered gold

and realize

we are still alive my

bartered friend!

a bright wind drives your

mended sails toward home

with the diamond husk of all your

poems received, the

heart of it believed in when you say

that all your trees are filled with singing now

where nothing, nothing is a bane

how

blazingly the Light

of every poem remains-

mary angela douglas 22 august 2011, 2 december 2005,