Ours Were The Emerald Currencies Of Oz

(for my sister, Sharon)

ours were the emerald currencies of Oz
the slipstream of the fairy tales regained
the loop through time

of the fanciful,
barnstorming over
spent fields of grain.

I have saved the paperbacks from school fairs
the books redolent as apples.
such cloud filled music, as you played:

tree filled, with birds
singing without stint
and mother-of-pearled,

for these relentless hours.

and vivid flowers in
fading precincts;
yards and yards of

the home flowers
that I may be cut from
that pattern only

and all the neglected bowers of Keats.
against the dream quenching-
this laborious world

a faery bright defense;
the arc of infinite colour
unsubmerged

the kingfisher flash and burn
of God
whose phoenix Name-

who, o who dares tarnish.

mary angela douglas 8 october 2015