but nothing came back to life;
though I stood long over the rose beds
murmuring, it cannot be that this has happened.
when did the cyclone come to stay,
the doors blow apart,
and stone by stone it all come raining down
somewhere else a long ways off; on a summer's day
in someone else's field.
maybe it will be revealed.
and maybe it will not
what war was fought here
and who won, when the cypresses
grew, twisting into the thunderheads
and the mirror backings'; rue,
rootless as water lilies.
I have had no news
and not one messenger.
nor do I want to.
mary angela douglas 24 july 2016