[for the fine Irish-Belgian poet, playwright Martin Burke, in memoriam. and for his Marie-Anne]
snow dreamed.
dreamed it could become white roses,
lost brides
sudden angels.
snow dreamed it was something else besides
still somehow, snow
the flower without stem
the pause in music;
waiting to begin
floating it longed to fly
flying it longed to lie on fences,
rooftops, to become the town
the plains
never to turn to rain
and weeping.
snow dreamed and dreamed and dreamed
it was our sleeping
in bouquets extravagantly cold
and danced on the mittens of little children.
of ship avowals it dreamed at sea
and floating with the waves
it disappeared and who could tell it then
from foam
from Praise
and still, it dreamed until we all were snow
and delicate and forevers
branching and branching...
mary angela douglas 6 december 2017
snow dreamed.
dreamed it could become white roses,
lost brides
sudden angels.
snow dreamed it was something else besides
still somehow, snow
the flower without stem
the pause in music;
waiting to begin
floating it longed to fly
flying it longed to lie on fences,
rooftops, to become the town
the plains
never to turn to rain
and weeping.
snow dreamed and dreamed and dreamed
it was our sleeping
in bouquets extravagantly cold
and danced on the mittens of little children.
of ship avowals it dreamed at sea
and floating with the waves
it disappeared and who could tell it then
from foam
from Praise
and still, it dreamed until we all were snow
and delicate and forevers
branching and branching...
mary angela douglas 6 december 2017
