Complaint To The Vanishing Lute

yesterday you wrote in gold, in pearl
upon the surfaces of clouds;
who was ever that happy

they don't dare to say 
to you outloud

wearing all the blues and the fluttering ribbons;
mornings, edged in lace.
is it the trace of summer in the air still there

on greyer days in June that brings you back
to the time of berries and laughter?
a something that's not seen

but promised in the wings or the shadows of wings
as they flit in the grey green gardens.
oh but when will the mists lift?

you complain to the lute,
to the lark, to the winding staircase,
winding nowhere;

to the castle,
and to the vanishing.

mary angela douglas 12 july 2016