this corsage of rains, this branching
sorrow lit up like stars, fireworks,
sparks remaining among ashes
gold among the dying out of days;
bouquets of clouds.
to the one turning away,
because it is not a message of your doom
that is spelled out on sea, on land,
in any language you can understand;
you who flee and who always have room to hide.
you who mock the brides that linger
near the dusk of tombs
who clutter up like beauty
the old paintings oh, for a while
take pity, have a heart
you who never heard of exile,
of the coming of dark days so soon
after the verdant noons
unless you were the one,
the imperial one
signing off on it.
mary angela douglas 30 june 2016