though you would not call it a golden thing now-
or even possible;
the partridge with its ruddy wing;
the swans upon their pond:
that they were spun of fine glass
like my escalating heart into
which God could pour in snow bright radio waves
when I thought, it was only you, my late remembered
picture book of days.
oh that you had given me unnumbered ways,
His mirrors, the flocks of the stars.
many dancers danced to my door;
the wreathed singers under the windows
that I flung wide that day
in my amazement stunned.
though the pipers drove me mad at daybreak
till I sent them away to other foundlings.
how glad was I for the singing colours,
the rainbow ribands, floating tides
of some Divine clear victory decreed;
the inner scars branched into a cherry stealing;
the vivid air you christened with crystal.
and merriment, in waves.
now the castle is dun.
the dulcimer dimmed with dusk and
the way is shut to me,
littered with your fantastical presents.
so once upon!...
how will you answer me when I call,
dressed all in silver, caroling to the last;
unclasping the sunset colours.
no gold upon the tree.
with only the mourning doves for company.
mary angela douglas 29-30 november 2015 rev, 3 december 2016