[to John Keats]
you were in love with the opal-branching skies,
the flowering hedge.
your opulence was real; your fancy bred
a farther season than the one at hand
and one, more lasting
so vivid were the words at your command
and unashamed of dreaming.
now the winds shift otherwise for some time, now
and to our detriment, we sail a compromised
sea and count ourselves lucky, some of us
such a compromise was made but why
and where and who, the first
to say
and claim a dubious prize.
what have we lost I cry
even asleep
and what will we do
with all these flowers
heaped at our feet
and the mellowed fruit
on the starry branches
so beyond our reach
and compassing...
mary angela douglas 24 september 2014
