Tuesday, July 26, 2016

White Roads

[to Dmitri Shoshtakovich]

we would take all the white roads
through the little villages
and draw in crayon the sun

over the similar, the rose red roofs
and hear the hooves of the magical horses
who would just roam

since no one was in need of rescue,
being home.
and we would stroll as if

our days were already immortal
tinged with the gold of peaches,
of apricot mornings

with no warnings

and eat the pastries in the shop windows,
the ones with pink icing
and be free,

on the white roads

that reflected the sun back to itself
that seemed more familiar with each unfolding scene
as the dream lapsed into telescoped into

its own peculiar nesting dolls
one after another who sang folksongs
each more cherry sprigged than the last and

like the waters lapping
at the edge of a long sleep

where the sound of roaring is a diminished Fifth
and the fairy tale, this distinct melody
of the white roads.

mary angela douglas 26 july 2016