your ferris wheel round
when I will take your chipped doll
dishes away and
clear the picnic grounds.
I have something old to say
neither borrowed nor blue;
lace edged, it may be true
although you turn your face to the wall
and from the mint in our Grandfather's garden.
I remember you, your childhood Grace,
head bowed before the multicoloured cereal;
or noonbright in your sundress
touching the clouds on high
from the swingset.
many things I can't forget
like ice blue marbles in the green cut grass
of our backyard where we played everything.
though now you turn your face to the wall
and will not hear me call out all we used to sing,
singing the blue dusks down
as though in an antique game of hide and seek,
gone on too long.
music will find you silver in the end
dressed up in cherry velvet for the angels.
and oh, my sometime friend, what I have written,
I have planted in the rose bright's sod
that this our childhood may not perish
from the faerie realms ever.
mary angela douglas 13 june 2016