Thursday, April 21, 2016


even so this April green this misted scene
unfolds as in earlier years the treble clef of birds
the liquid trilling of the hidden days we chanced upon

merely opening a window.

and the sudden flowering, flaring into bloom
of trees that God Himself regreted he had not made
originally Flowers, and so, these green rains pouring

still, this misted scene;

still, the mint of winter's coolness upon
all once upons
in the mornings remaining;

this infinite raining washing my colours away until
I feel the white gold of the sun give credence, rest
from the race that's run too heedlessly ever without

hearing, seeing, being the rose through the mists
the rose through the mists that is the Heart
blossoming, biding Time and the

dark sorrows rained away, drained away from winter's
wound the ravens sorrowing and on the cusp of music
I say but can hardly say that in this misted scene

and the watercolour 
of it delicate tendriled all around as singing
launches from the 

rose core through the slight door of the mists

of my vine clad praise and in this greening flight
and the Soul the rose the rose
blossoming that

what you seek oh Lord day and night
we have found
and bring you wreaths and coronals

of the promised Worlds we had denied.

mary angela douglas 21 april 2016