In Run Down Slippers Of A Faded Brocade

in run down slippers of a faded brocade
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
the dream

and its dancing day for you.

mary angela douglas 2 july 2016