To Certain Poets Whom I Cannot Get Out Of My Mind

the very rich, the deep brocaded heart,
the one twining the apple blossom
with the rubied leaf;entwined with music 

irretrievably

the one where the angels
shed tears of ochre all october long
for what is departing, departed

and in the winter's shine
repeats the rethreading pearls;
the sequins of our distancing unfurled

oh flags of the poles
belonging to no one but the snowblind
heart in the world, unknown

and layered waxy crayon on crayon
scratch art of the infinite, or nodding off,
the sugarplumed winsome gleams

of the child you used to be.

the poets are not under sod as the moderns thought
who did not mourn for them;
who labored that they'd be forgot-

in favour of colourless things.

they are with God.
and in my midnight room
with the moon shining in;

the ever lilac stars.

mary angela douglas 2 july 2016