someone's godmother spoke airily,
oh then it was I leafed through
wisps and mounds of colour drifting
skies never spoken quite out loud
and flights of birds
and the songs of going away.
all on display, the jeweled tones
fading shade to shade
remembered and the qualities of light.
all this was yesteryear
the mining of the days
and golden before
above beside us
after the rains refracted
into myriad rainbows
skimming the puddles
where small children played
scattering the rose tinged sparrows.
mary angela douglas 8 february 2017