The Works Of Imagination Dim

the works of imagination dim
the children in the frail boat falter
the wind has culled the golden leaves

the bright ships fade.

how did they unmake a world
and leave no shred of evidence behind
someone will ask

with snowdrops in her hair, unvetted-
or kicking up the leaves at the curb.
and when was the crossroads

white with dew,
a seconding moonlight
and why did the apple branch lean down

when this was through

and where was longing found
in the proud age empty
of all we knew

the shades of green
you could count on one hand,
mowed down.

I went to the lost and found
to find the princess, prince
all underground and tagged

and we played run, sheep run
our voices like bells.
our shadows lagged-

and rushed to our lips
almost, a sadness:
one lost and violet word.

the setting sun
like a final rose
flung down by God

for the mourning doves.
and the dreaming world undone
by snows, in the afternoon.

mary angela douglas 27 december 2016