where the simplest thing becomes the hardest;
the clearest question bounces off the walls
and strays into fields from which
there is no recovery.
so you go on asking each passerby:
do you have the answer, the directions to the next shire,
the memory of who you are
or anything to say for yourself at all?
and you get the stall.
the rolled eyeball.
the arched glance.
and then by chance
you meet the crone for whom
you perform a kind deed;
the animal in the trap, you've freed.
the queen of the fairies in a fine disguise...
you open your eyes
and it's morning.
and there you are
with the self same questions again.
and the same, inevitable, spin.
mary angela douglas 12 june 2016