dreaming my dream as if it were an old movie
in sepia tones or the interiors with the luxuriant
in a vast house of lamps with little prisms
ornate mirrors, and corridors of snow
or sunlit orchid paths or a lone hill
where the riders ride away.
the riders ride away.
it is sunset in techicolour
oh stay cry the summers from the page
turned into films that we watch over and over
but there is no delay
the old clocks tick and the cherry branches
and the axe is at hand,
the orchard stilled.
gone is the familiar presence
and the rider on the hill.
mary angela douglas 20 march 2017