And The Incoming Tide

I think of toys, of vanished children
of deep pockets in old storybooks
perhaps a caramel or two I

might fish out wrapped in gold foil,
the silver net of dreams.
I think perhaps it was all sugarplum

bright, Eden without exception
the cream, real cream in the coffee
the steam from old radiators rising

and their clanking announcements
it's January mornings. or it's April chill
old Fords built to last.

oh my surmising heart
from fiddle stix and pick up sticks
in every shade inlaid

I wander there in proverbial attics
and wonder why they retired
the chintz chairs. the cottage furnished

with everything echoing flowers, flowers
the maple and the lemon leaves
flying against blue windowpanes

blue windowpanes and sticking there
Jack Frost, the hurricane lamp it's flare on
oilcloth, tablecloth, bone china

the cracks in the window frames
letting in all the stars.

the candy jars
where once we ate our fill.
geraniums on the window sills

brave and scarlet.
and Sunday newspaper thoughts of brides
with stephanotis held high

the silvered, pearled bouquets
and the incoming tide.

mary angela douglas 24 august 2018