Saturday, February 18, 2017


this is the screenplay of the stars peeping out
of the apricot soft air
of you swinging on the Gate of dare

and keeping your lace handkerchiefs
free from dust.
we would be dusting the piano of a saturday

and the lint off the music stand
the plaids off the wash n wears
and it was all silvery, silvery

the afternoons pleated blue
and in tune both hands together
when we played September scales

or we played anything garden green
swinging the statues mirthfully
with the fireflies winking Mother May I?

over the cut grass, stained glass feelings.
and then there is the feeling of blowsy trees
dimming in the darkening skies still

alive alive as the winds
as we were then in rose velour looking out the window or
gathering pastel easter eggs in the grass

at a late hour I would be in that particular sleepwalking
petticoat bright saying goodbye once more to the dolls in their
stiff finery, outstretched hands in tinseled daylight

and to fractions and the crescendo of
waiting up staying up on Christmas Eves
at least figuratively, all sugar plum beside ourselves

the tulip bulbed Christmas lights astonishing oh
to see the fireworks, to hear the Christmas bells
all water coloured blended now is it all an ancient reverie

the clarion call announcing presents, brocaded, folkloric
reverberating shore to mystic shore
announcing the Present

that is no more.

mary angela douglas 18 february 2017