the mist falls and then fills the winds
and I have traveled back again
after the rose red bordered hem.
and all our songs trail off into
the clearing long ago he knew
when coming to the ford of Time
and casting Ireland into rhyme.
oh, all is lost to win again
the mystery of the red rose hem.
though earth flies in her winter sleep,
we still may sow where he had reaped
the after times he dreamed of then
with the white swans rising, after all.
mary angela douglas rev. 7 october 2016
