Into The Greenwoods

into a far greenness they have vanished
with their little leaves, their fronds
their wayward ferns

the thistles that caught on my dress
as I walked through the high fields.
midsummer does not last

we sighed in our pastel skirls
turning to take our honey and toast
by the waysides.

time has turned into something else again
the way it will.
the way your mother said

it would when she was braiding your hair.
but she has vanished too
into the greenwoods the greenwoods

she used to sing of
when songs were already, so old.

mary angela douglas 28 december 2015