gliding on swan waves back to shores
you'd never seen before. the water smoothed
into sudden gleams: white honey, worn,
reflective of the spun dawns
opening into small rooms of dew
where roses thrum too secretly,
half rung, the canticles of the clouded sun or moon
the way it felt when you would come
to a standstill on a hill taking in the winds
as though they were waters into the boat
taking the wind that way into your soul
floating always floating between
heaven and earth
your soul in the disstole of the swan
the fairytale one always
longing to be,
but not yet;
so it was in the once upons or
was it a crystal swan on a crystal pond
in front of the castle where the
tin soldier still looked on
the dancer in a whir of tulle
festooned with a small pink pearl
in the stage struck world of
a paper theatre's possibilities.
is this swan avenue he thought
caught as he was in the intricacy
the toys still gleaming just
that Christmas instant hardly unwrapped
and now that swan snows drifted in
through the window chinks
he said I think it's time
I should be getting back
or I am lost at sea and off the track
of wandering
and turned a tinge of pink
dreaming that he had
said it all aloud
in a Christmas clotted with dreams
that was the story told to me the white dawn
one I wanted to dance upon and balance
the clear and the crystal note repeated
like a diamond theme
but time has stolen all such swans
from me and I cast out to sea
a little unwillingly
on the boat that I remember in the park
when I was three.
soon it will be dark
and will they come for me?
and I am looking still
for the swans going, having gone over
who recognize me
who know I was meant to be
white pearl gliding over the marsh
so free in
that heedless music wavering
in the looking glass way
I knew would last
and music box wound
in the beautiful past.
mary angela douglas 12 march 2018
you'd never seen before. the water smoothed
into sudden gleams: white honey, worn,
reflective of the spun dawns
opening into small rooms of dew
where roses thrum too secretly,
half rung, the canticles of the clouded sun or moon
the way it felt when you would come
to a standstill on a hill taking in the winds
as though they were waters into the boat
taking the wind that way into your soul
floating always floating between
heaven and earth
your soul in the disstole of the swan
the fairytale one always
longing to be,
but not yet;
so it was in the once upons or
was it a crystal swan on a crystal pond
in front of the castle where the
tin soldier still looked on
the dancer in a whir of tulle
festooned with a small pink pearl
in the stage struck world of
a paper theatre's possibilities.
is this swan avenue he thought
caught as he was in the intricacy
the toys still gleaming just
that Christmas instant hardly unwrapped
and now that swan snows drifted in
through the window chinks
he said I think it's time
I should be getting back
or I am lost at sea and off the track
of wandering
and turned a tinge of pink
dreaming that he had
said it all aloud
in a Christmas clotted with dreams
that was the story told to me the white dawn
one I wanted to dance upon and balance
the clear and the crystal note repeated
like a diamond theme
but time has stolen all such swans
from me and I cast out to sea
a little unwillingly
on the boat that I remember in the park
when I was three.
soon it will be dark
and will they come for me?
and I am looking still
for the swans going, having gone over
who recognize me
who know I was meant to be
white pearl gliding over the marsh
so free in
that heedless music wavering
in the looking glass way
I knew would last
and music box wound
in the beautiful past.
mary angela douglas 12 march 2018
