coming from the emerald land
we packed no suitcase, took no train.
wait. and the clocks will tick it all away;
the fever recedes.
old bandages are removed:
the halcyon, the beautiful oft repeated,
but never the same.
you rub your eyes but it still looks green to you
even the corn stubble skies,
cyclones- in-residence, now.
only in dreams is there solidity.
the palace walls. the long corridor down
to the emerald answers-still purely
echoing with your
small, brave footsteps.
mary angela douglas 19 september 2014
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