[For Jeanne D'Arc]
that is the fairy tree, the holy tree for certain
she breathed as though she spoke in cloud language
only God could hear; the other children having departed
now the silver edged angels,
the twilight ones appeared
when the stars were ensconced
not quite yet, the honeyed candle of her soul is lit.
ahead lies a future;
not of clouds.
Michael, Catherine, Margaret within the hour
appearing to the clear eyed child
who must speak truth to Power
the one her visions forge that indicate
the road that she must take
and all her meadowed dreams forsake,
leaving the fairy tree behind
packing only her one wool dress
the one on Sundays worn
her prayer book perhaps; could she read?
only the missal of her dreams
she is fanciful her mother said
after she'd gone, self willed they said
not right in the head and there was rage
at the turning of a page while
the cobwebs of the dawning grasses
served for a halo of sorts, for Joan.
a covering
sweeping into God, destiny, the fire...
a heart of resolve.
only the tree knew her best
where she confessed she loved God only
and the tree whispers and would have shed every leaf
and oh, for very grief (the fairies said) and the tree
though newly leafed sensing not far from here,
her last breath on the winds
sensing it would see her when
it also,brandishing newly and with its pearlized
flowerets would be let into the lobbies of Heaven would bloom again
heavy with birdsong, jubiliant.
this marked her now, goodbye my Jeanne...
to the once upon Kingdom
that ring around the moon.
my halo, my small Queen.
goodbye to life, to what has been
farewell, for honour's sake
pursue without turning back
the Divine trajectory.
for all of History.
For Love itself.
and nothing else.
mary angela douglas 10 may 2018;30 may 2019
that is the fairy tree, the holy tree for certain
she breathed as though she spoke in cloud language
only God could hear; the other children having departed
now the silver edged angels,
the twilight ones appeared
when the stars were ensconced
not quite yet, the honeyed candle of her soul is lit.
ahead lies a future;
not of clouds.
Michael, Catherine, Margaret within the hour
appearing to the clear eyed child
who must speak truth to Power
the one her visions forge that indicate
the road that she must take
and all her meadowed dreams forsake,
leaving the fairy tree behind
packing only her one wool dress
the one on Sundays worn
her prayer book perhaps; could she read?
only the missal of her dreams
she is fanciful her mother said
after she'd gone, self willed they said
not right in the head and there was rage
at the turning of a page while
the cobwebs of the dawning grasses
served for a halo of sorts, for Joan.
a covering
sweeping into God, destiny, the fire...
a heart of resolve.
only the tree knew her best
where she confessed she loved God only
and the tree whispers and would have shed every leaf
and oh, for very grief (the fairies said) and the tree
though newly leafed sensing not far from here,
her last breath on the winds
sensing it would see her when
it also,brandishing newly and with its pearlized
flowerets would be let into the lobbies of Heaven would bloom again
heavy with birdsong, jubiliant.
this marked her now, goodbye my Jeanne...
to the once upon Kingdom
that ring around the moon.
my halo, my small Queen.
goodbye to life, to what has been
farewell, for honour's sake
pursue without turning back
the Divine trajectory.
for all of History.
For Love itself.
and nothing else.
mary angela douglas 10 may 2018;30 may 2019
