vanishing into the green, the pearl, the faintly pink
the lilac as into her own watercolours.
this was early morning and the dews on the grasses
and the snowy flowers, pastels of the pan pipes
unheard, there she turned into
all the ballets, the maypole ribboned floating
above the world and its trembling.
and you with your smirks, your murky asides
your eyes on the bottom line and
the cynical cynosure
what makes you so sure
this never happened
mary angela douglas 30 april 2016