Old Poetry, Torn Pocket Where The Diamond Dust Is Seeping

old poetry, torn pocket where the diamond dust is seeping

on the trail and will the children nestle near the soughing trees, little dreaming no one will come for them.

still, cherry-cheeked and making the best of things.

old poetry. scraps of butterfly wings a little gilded.

seldom seen  by anyone now,

the buttercup light beneath their chins.

small dinner table games remembered.

here's the pink rabbit made of the damask napkin.

the Easter jellybeans in stained glass sticky melting;

in between the lint in the wounded pocket

sing your lost angels out of sight

all night she dreamed of a pink apron

fantastic with a blueberry thread.

white rolls sugared.

will they awake where there is singing

old poetry.  here's my apple tart for you

with cream. forgive all departures

from the the crystal stream.

I weep for your seeping diamonds, still.

mary angela douglas 19 february 2014