as they marbelize and shift and glow with altering lights
and not to the outer night where there can be
no sunrise, nor eyes expecting anything true
let me be specific as to the hue of the golden apples
in the far away myth and as to the
child in the grass in the pink dress
picking the small,pearled flowers
and gazing for hours
at unseen angels.
I will describe their halos
and the fresoes all of this makes
on the surface of lakes.
let me not forsake the least fleck of
your beauty there or anywhere really
year after slipshod year
but turn my back on the cruel, the tactless
the supercilious world
destined to disappear.
mary angela douglas 6 august 2016