every book of light I held in my hands
transmutes to gold all I don't understand
oh words at times the gateway into that vanished
land we sense and never see
until a glint of it, a sudden shifting in the trees
the wayward sparkle in a wayside pebble
draws the eye.
what else can draw the curtain back on that
the world forgets, grinds under feet, winds like
a winding sheet.
far from their coteries let me be
with words that remain true
because they are.
not second hand.
though solitary, wild, thought underfed
ridiculously clothed, unvisited, I stand:
deep in the light that pools around
their dreaming through the ages;
indifferent to command-
mary angela douglas 9 october 2014
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