I remembered how I felt as a child when
I learned the flower and the name together
and the happiness of the name and the named
being so gloriously together in the cool morning
the morning I was told this by my Grandmother,
Grandfather. that was, as Wordsworth meant,
when all mornings were tinged with glory
and we ourselves, our own morning
and coloured this way. yet still I feel the
sudden inrush of wings, of the hummingbirds to
the morning glory vines and my words flutter too
recalling the nectar of home;
the phases of the moon back then
when everything was shinier.
and the honeyed time dripped more slowly.
stone to stone.
mary angela douglas 22 april 2016