you helped me to believe in them.
you and my Grandmother, or, at least,-
the land they lived in blossoming
always around me, near and not near,
cherished and cherry-coated, too; quite candylike-
beyond the dust bunnies under the furniture,
the reach of the Kirby vacuum
(my Grandfather's gadgeted delight) with one million
attachments sucking up the bobby pins
my Grandfather almost curses at:
dadgummit! clink, clink clink
o pure Land of Fairyland
I still muse
I lived in too, quite naturally
the way I lived in air
setting the yellow table for the perhaps-inhabitants
and the dolls who tolerated them
with my pretend rubied spoons; lighting the pink candles
in imagination since
we couldn't play with matches or the teacups
in the china cabinet...just admire them, Girls.
it was what I'd always wear, later on
I knew, whirling and whirling into time future:
their skirts of starlight net
when I was grown, in ballet tulle
in pure shades of the Rose silver
thread of the Lavendar
(before I ever heard the words: "Dress Code "
that later I would ignore, however I could,
if only by wearing roses in a chignon
never giving it a second thought;
not ever quite a real secretary
(they told the Agency)
though I typed with the speed
of fairy flight...
of course, if times got bad (I thought) I'd live near moss and brooks with no snakes. and eat all the berries I could find and feel quite full. and if not, then wish for tiramisu, tirra lirra
strawberries spooned on ice cream sodas,
tree house buckets of Divinity...and
drawn up in secret nooks,
the little wax bottles brimmed
with syrups of the pastille.
Rose Fyleman. Rose Fyleman.
a secret fairy name if there ever was one:
and perfect for the agencies
who'd send you somewhere clerical indeed.
given a quarter note's chance.
have some peanut brittle straight from an apron pocket
or some candy corn, chocolate kisses, toffee chips,
butterscotch bits-some shreds of silk? to bribe the trolls
by the nasty bridge that spans immortal Beauty,
gummed stars in every colour; you deserve such thanks
for the real geography lessons: glittery rings
on the waters, in the bark of favored trees.
I'm washing the deeper Face of Things
in rosewater so many decades on
(after all my Saturday chores are done)
and stored with the lemon wafers, slices of the sun,
the milky quartz, piano music drifting like a cloud
on Saturday afternoons, I'm folding, something out of sight
in a cupboard of curious devising beside
the Christmas pomanders-
when Company comes - and then, departs,
thinking I'm out getting groceries while
I'm glitter sifting deep in due diligence to the Brothers Grimm, their friends...
sprinkling liberally with the dew from off
strange wings and ironing it all out, I will!
the wrinkled frowns of those dissatisfied still
with the uselessness of enchantment
mary angela douglas 30 may 2014;rev. 2 june 2014
Note on the poem: of course, this was all in very tiny handwriting.
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