Apocalyptic Isn't It, Calypso Like

on flat surfaces the angel is weeping blood
the music does not correspond
there is a fresco at the end of time

in a small chapel on walls of lime
you see it through the porticos
and in the dreamtime

you're almost awake
shaking the silver dust out of your eyes
the sheen of it like snows

like snows that you remember
from a golden previous
when the angel was almost smiling

and the children played in the garden
and dreamed of the sun in white armor
of growing small and translucent wings.

how long will this last
he asked of all his poems
this teetering on the edge

while we draw the curtains at home
while we light the candles and pray
this is what I learned from history

in a single summer day
as if in a story by Bradbury
he left unfinished

for some next one
the music goes on.
the music is not appropriate for the Song

the canticle at the End of time
the fresco where the angel is turning away
where the delicate glassware trembles

and no one determines the cause
where the laws go on melting
to fit someone else's plans

where mercy seeks one land
one land only
and finds something else instead.

mary angela douglas 8 july 2018