Imprimatura

wrecked gold of  the far illuminations

is coming home

and moonlight sunk in

its own mirrors helplessly

I find forever

in the glazed word you speak.

but april blossoms on the wall

when you bind your luckless

clouds together

and you wound nothing.

imprint this with a spendthrift's sigh

with the knowledge that every colour breathes

the rose you gathered as if it were

long-ago

from very Light.

mary angela douglas 31 august 2011