[to Eleanor Farjeon]
will they never know the Looking Glass world-
the one that fell apart in your hands all crystal snow,
then you cried! Spring and the butterscotch sunlight
across the floor reprimanded your Mother, softly,
rainbow enterprised.
why are they doomed to study only science
as if there were no wonder left to them.
math, and the equations cut and dried
but not as flowers were when we preserved
the memory of meadowsweet, lark and fern
by every means possible or impossible.
no more the pumpkin rattling coach
on the same highway makes us curious:
what was there before when
everything was transfigured and the night
stood still inside your heart
hearing the wistful summons from the music.
ah, the castle was lit bright,
music, our only language, when
asked the child unknowing,
bereft of the dreams that spilled to us then
so easily, even from the corners of no birthdays
from cobwebby rafters, old recipes in books
heavy with cream and brandied fruit, trifles, jams
of the sun spoked streams run through and
sugar spun
cherry cobblered to the heart's content.
even our ruled paper paper airplanes
built for flights over the varied turreted worlds unseen
still flew, however imperfectly
we were lords of all colours then
ladies of the May
kings of the applesauced day.
and honey buttered.
now the Christmas mantles slip away
though adorned with balsam, fir and the rest.
they don't even know what dressing up is for
or costumes with gauze wings, the vintage beads
the iffy jewels, the pirated schemes
throw the tinfoil clutter out they sniff
and they don't have colds
but I keep vigil and God will not delay
where the prayers rise importuning: almost
singing again:
let the magical days return
for Lord, we are lost without them
in the unconvincing worlds
mary angela douglas 20 september 2014
