Dream Garden

here is where the poets come, the musicians
harried, bum rushed from a world that
doesn't comprehend them:

to the Dream Garden.

here, for their weariness: roses, stars,
tri coloured lilies
opening with the dawn and then closing up.

and they are safe, inside.

and buttercups and the gold they live in
all wrapped up here where the world no longer warps
or casts aside, as if they were the shell of things

and not the soul itself,

these annointed ones.
come morning, I said from my soul;
come evening, sewn with the fabulous, crystal stars

to the garden of dreams, to the dream garden
where what was tossed is found;
where there is solid ground for the visionary

mocked in the hurly burly, reft of her pearls

and the wandering, the beautiful;
and a cunning home, rimmed with a wild green superfluity.
and these, for the lost in time who have lost their place

but not God's grace;
the infinitely wounded, amid
acrimonious cries.

mary angela douglas 12 june 2016