[to William Blake, to Walter De La Mare...
and to my mother]
"the hidden emerald of a far off day..."
she began to say but
coming or going? queried her angels
as if dressed by Kate Greenaway.
"I don't know; it's the sheen of the day
that matters, not that it slipped away.
may it ever be raspberry," I prayed.
she smiled.
it slipped away.
and the halo of her stories shone
after the angel departed,
I heard, over Christmas vacation...
oh remain my heart's mirage
she murmured from Heaven
And the geranium borders
in the garden, faded.
oh where have the clouds gone
that shimmered in the air
when they were all still here
eating daintily in vintage clothes
from pastel bowls:
perfections of the strawberries and cream?
where poetry was easily spoken
on the earlier, the echoing green?
mary angela douglas 4 may 2014rev. 17 november 2014
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