The Dream Of The Indigo Trails

[to the Russian poets, novelists, artists forever and ever...
to the "rehabilitated" dead]

these indigo trails through snow melted in the spring;

our early spring, (not theirs)
they could not live to see

the thaw of their lost pages,
tear stained appeals reviewed,
consigned to fire;
smudged ink: the last page being Snow
in a secret file.

what can we say who gathered them there

too many ages later
(black ink the colour of their blood or blue)

as if they were flowers? our hands sharp with cold.

these were their lost worlds, their last-

inscribed in frost, last samizdat

bound in no libraries- not up for a prize.
last ink, on snow paper flowing and oh,

the last thought fleeting: words to
the song of their last breathing:
no one coming back to rescue...

nearby the small tracks of the larks, the thrush

the nightingales of all our sorrows-
beside their half dissolving, shine-

as if in sympathy. Divine

mary angela douglas 10 october 2014;rev. 11 november 2014