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
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