in the dead of winter
so she wouldn't feel nostalgic
for the bright teas under the shade trees,
the little cakes.
for she had far to go
in a cherry frock with lace of snow
a petticoat, little shoe of pale blue satin.
oh could you break in two
would you be her heart
in pieces of french majolica?
on the shores of a kingdom
partial to strawberry vines.
let it be written in dust
on the neglected pianos
by those in slightly modern times
that she sang like a thousand larks
or like the summer rains
and cherished strawberries overmuch,
overipened, with cream or without
and served on French Majolica.
mary angela douglas 4 october 2016