cast off by imperious sisters,
you pretend, when they're away,
it's your parade, Cinderella;
waving an orchid fan indivisible
so that your angels shine a little more
irrepressibly into cobwebbed corners.
there's still the bread to make;
the endless jams of summer
while you partake of almond cookies
at a far off wedding, and candied nougat
by the jar
or think you are;
there's that little demarcation between
and its dancing day for you.
mary angela douglas 2 july 2016