Sunday, July 23, 2017

Another Song For Walter De La Mare

imagination's clearest pane is breathed upon
fern imprinted, silver dusted from the suns
behind pale clouds of gold

a shivering breeze and
suddenly, our words are clouded over
and a presence thrums

and something like

the tinkling of small bells has come
it's in between leaf and leaf
the circumference of the rose

half guessed at, behind
snow blnded eyes
and dreams flit in and out of


haunting your disguise
and you won't hear a thing
when the evening news comes on

which doesn't mean
beyond your chintz covered
arm chair

the ghosts aren't all
still there...

mary angela douglas 24 july 2017