between what is written
and what is dreamed
I saw a thin, a golden margent
I saw a thin, a golden margent
and the seas rushing over it
the seawall, the rushing words
becoming music, after all
the seawall, the rushing words
becoming music, after all
in the tree shade as it was remembered
and the days dripping down like the honeycomb
the moon, its silver door left ajar.
and the days dripping down like the honeycomb
the moon, its silver door left ajar.
come tell me where you are now
something called.
I couldn’t say it all
something called.
I couldn’t say it all
in nightingales, in urns
in the mauve turning of the stair
into the everywhere
in the mauve turning of the stair
into the everywhere
I tried.
until I died.
until I died.
a maiden cried:
plant myrtle- here.
plant myrtle- here.
mary angela douglas 4 october 2018
