After Jacques Brel

neither earth nor sky, here comes the thief of wishes

to filch the light from children’s eyes from the very sun

that shone on you, Persephone in your dress of wild iris,

neither shore nor sea.

there burns the thief of wishes warning

those who should be told, instead:

oh, flee the Messenger!

or weep fresh centuries away

or shake your Christmas angels,

sleeping fast, awake-

or wait at a turquoise landing

smoothing your dress of pearl till 

not a lemon drop’s left;

a train in the train yard.

she'll murmur from a glassy stream

as one who knew but was not known:

keep stealing the beat from the heart

the right word from the page

while the windmills turn as if in another age but

your own fields

your own...

fields are seldom green.

I saw in a dream with a silver spoon

the thief of wishes scoop the moon

till birdsong flew but not the birds 

I am littered with the jewels of

what remains

mary angela douglas 29 august 2013