The Summer Of Words

the summer of words was perfect
leafy as Eden
we admired ourselves

in crystal pools. as children do
with fresh hair ribbons,
necklaces of spools with

the many coloured threads.
behind us the mirrors of an open sky
we could not die; there were no dead.

it was pure gold, each fresh word coined
and spoken into the air we spoke in pearls
laughter rippled among the angels

and God replied in so many peach sunsets
we lost count.

turning the pages of the lexicon of Light
dreaming we thought we heard it whispered
the promise of eternal Spring.

who could stop us singing then.
who would want to.
we were like the winds.

There was no rumor of war
of strange commercials unexplained
of propaganda fresh as buttered biscuits

deadly as lead.
no idiot proclamations God is dead.
there was none of this.

no one believes me
when I say this now
through secret handshakes

covert dreams inside the gates
getting the word out somehow
the only words that we have left.

that haven't been invaded.

pray.

escape.

wait for God.


mary angela douglas 4 february 2019