how have we landed here
in this fair place
and still they do not know
but this was long ago
when the winds were theirs alone
and every stone on the playground
shone with more than mica gleaming
we were strawberry seaming then
stitching between the rhymes
all, all the time with rose budded china
and the let's pretend
under the berry coloured skies
not sorting the hows and whys at all
not even meaning to, using up all the crayons
at the same time
we only dreamed as if we were
resembling more than slightly
our portraits done in chalk pastels
at the World's Fair.
wide awake the whole time
for perpetual Christmases descending
the stories never ending, you said
in your sleep nevertheless,
we grew away and
I confess still a love for music
fostered then, and lemon meringue pies
and Cinderella read again and again
instead of homework
and the fairytale disguise
all glittter and sequin
birthday beribboned surprise
it's not what they say what you thought was said
growing up would be growing older; more remote
you're even more silver; Im ever more gold
or is it the other way round
depending on who's telling it now or what day it is.
we ask all Alice, wondering still.
in search of the green, the pink chalked hills.
I think, we always will.
mary angela douglas 16 february 2017