And Could We Ever Be Dressed In The Sunset Foils

and could we ever be dressed in the sunset foils

of islands, crinkled with shining?

where it rains colours

everywhere there is a poet

under the shifting fronds of something magical;

forever whispering on the foam, o my pink island.

and is it a whisper of mimosa green, the feathery pink

that will never be this distinct again-

the mango hour?

the froth in the cup of warm apricot

brimming over at the airports of welcome? or

splashed and splashing in secret inks like Easter dyes remembered or a bon-bon sufficiency-

we will write, how strange, dimmed islanders

may remember

our starfish music

rising early in

communion dresses of the unexpected pink,

Mary, mother of all Pearl.

we will adore the God of many colours:

orchid, hisbiscus, looming lemony starry

arcing over the pink and turquoise

tiny homes inset

in the sidewalk chalked , the

hopscotched cliffs of the soul.  

mary angela douglas 24 july 2014

Note on the poem: I wanted to use the word "pink" like a glass handbell rung just at the point in the music where you had forgotten about it.