Friday, October 21, 2016

A Ghost Story For Mr. Barrie

[to J.M. Barrie, author of Peter Pan, Mary Rose...]

the filagree of Time dismantled
and the mists and not, the action rising,
the character of

mist, the voice in mist,all flower=in=a=mist
the chime-and then, gone,

disappearing then, chiming
Somewhere Else someone else
declaring undying

love but the gold of syllables flake off
into...the memory of doves
of the perhaps snows and the rooms snowing

singeing the silvers of words
of the possible impossibles
and what if it dissolves at night? 

the window is open and the

night air, the night air
the curtains billowing
but whose are they,

the children, when you turn your back
close your eyes or open them again,
then dreaming is everywhere,

nowhere on the tracks as expected
there we were
with our best handkerchiefs waving goodbye

consorting with ghost ships, walking the planks

with the painted moons in our eyes or

in between,entr'act, la sylphide through the trees
never nearer,almost, clearer,
looking back on the ballets

o! and all the orchid ways
at the islands slipping from the maps
all schoolroom wrapped

whenever you take up the book
and read the page
you thought you had

finished, look

it is never finished
we are never finished

mary angela douglas 21 october 2016