Of All Things, Hold The Most Dear

they have tossed all the golden apples out
all the former trappings of the stage:
the pasteboard angels, diamond declarations made;

the evidence of the play.
was it written? did they say
well played

on a night scented with lilies
the lavish critics?
or something else, the surly

known for withholding praise
in the dimming days
more and more obscured

but then,
so highly feted with
extravagant little cakes,

select wines.
I ponder these sometimes, the vintage scenes
and album scripts

the Empire gowns
glass records found
recordings of another age

they seem dreamed,
chimerical, rather than lived.
and though I cannot sound it out,

lost phonics!
I hate to see them vanquished
and I don't fit in

because I pick the golden apples up
and put them in my pocket on a whim
a dare?

or in my locket is a wisp
of hair, perhaps Keat's,
a clasp with amethyst accents

and questions never asked,
never auctioned.
a fair copy I keep of a manuscript

that says:
of all things, hold the most dear
the language of dream

of insoluble tears.

mary angela douglas 10 december 2017.