like birds from their sunlit spires;
a turn of the wave and then,
mere vanishing into foam.
why can't we drift and
then begin to dream
where time has bought no seam?
where wandering is a blessed thing and
not a curse;
far from the ravaged earth;
far from the tempests that
have had little meaning
since our birth; we could go on and on
vanishing like moonlight from the causeways
when it is Dawn.
mary angela douglas 30 april 2016