[to Rupert Brooke and the others]
it's just a little cortege and not white satin
pale as a summer moon.
she would have worn forsythia if
it were noon and violet gloves.
it's just a little cortege.
she's skipping geranium this season
that was for the cotillion,
Christmas tidings, tide.
it's just a little cortege.
a gold spray of holly
garnet slippers crossed her mind
a dress of infinite snow
but not the little cortege
stumbling into trembling sunlight-
losing the drumbeat
all her rainbows with it:
wartime poets-
one by radiant one.
mary angela douglas 4 october 2013
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