The Merely Imagined Author Writing the Life of De La Mare

it isn't enough to go into the mists;

you should be mist yourself

to find him; or

to think you have-

till you have dreamed

with no parenthesis;

you won't take notes

but freeze there in the hedges

(only a little, he said)

and that's how music starts:

viola, moon bright

for the Invisible.

come in, quoth he, it's getting dark

and we'll have tea

of orange blossom, lime

perhaps with something tart

only a little icing hinting cherries, apricots

and will you have some more?

he inquired how the book was

coming along or is it at all

there? in a green silk chair

was he suddenly quiet

hands in his pockets in and out of time

before strange candies melting

there, like twilight, clouds

by the China cabinet

lead you to ask but you

can't somehow:

whose childhood is this, anyway?

Of anything, vanishing-

less like Carroll, he said kindly

more like the Christmas Feast

once the Star near trembling, sets;

the snowlight of these shadows flees;

the drifts.. I was an early spring, too late

profiled near the sweet peas in an evening garden

moonstruck to the core

you won't forget me...?

mary angela douglas 25 october 2014