As Though We Were Children, Still

we will spend the splendid pennies of our days
to the very end
drenched in the wind, the perfumes of cut grass

the antique stories that will last
told over and over again and
gathering up late violets on the hills

or singing silverly to ourselves
taking down the cherished books
from familiar shelves

and dreaming more than reading.

stilled is the water in our wishing wells
and ever clearer and there we linger
not lifting a finger

concentrating so hard
and wrapping the world in our wish;
sealing the letter

with the luminescent heart
red o red and shining.
rich in the measure of days

that drift oh, amber! like the leaves away
while we cry stay, stay
and are heard of God

who blows them back
to us mysteriously
in colourful array

as though we were children, still.

mary angela douglas 26 august 2017