Throwback

someday driving into the Caledonian,
into the mists of what is left of
an unexpected blue

and the folkways branching like cherries
and my heart as full of song as the pear
branch blossoms in May 

unsure of whether it be pear blossom
or the light of uncertain stars
uncertain stars the light of my songs

the light of what does or doesn't belong in this century
and I a vivid ghost looking into dead mirrors

no I will not waste away this way.

like the rains I will be, not be lost
among Caledonian hills, 
keeping the density of storm clouds

while they live, and full of bright birds

and with the Holy Ghost discerning everything
singing as I can through the surging winds
well beyond the status quo the growth of capital;

well you may say, well, toward
the summits of gold.
and brushing aside infernal gossip.

the need to know, 
removing all its springs
just how the music is wound.

for the white and gold,for the white and gold;
the weddings of the skies.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2018