we who are subject to mirages
to the fluttering of failing wings
of the small things
so prone to disappear
we need you near oh God
in our tiny rooms
making do with scraps
for curtains unable to bear
the View.
and losing, losing, lost
we bear the cost of our clouded
then occluded dreams till
oh from our windows and at
the very sills at times
we long for some release
where somehow Beauty never ceases
flowing in waves from ever
your weeping hands.
then snows visit us and erase
our solitary tracks
when we look back
and light your Light
comes to our cages
and we see, oh
benign and gleaming:
the shadows of your angels;
not the bitter facts.
mary angela douglas 6 june 2015
