to anyone listening
the former blueness of clouds
the camoflouge of the skies.
hushed are the small ferns
I bent down to see
the wish for moss roses among them.
every waning moment for me
in a subdued gold
but the child in me cries
but it's still gold
the aim of all enterprise
not exactly that.
the rain falls in cascades
over the gardens I do not own
yet I am free to gaze on.
these and whatever I see
even to other people's lamplight
privy.
I wish I could stand in the rain
stand the rain as flowers can
and be exactly who I am
I feel like a scarecrow
in my soul
only good enough
to frighten the ravens away.
yet to me has been given
a language of rain
of the departing names
the ones I sob over
with no one nigh.
when clouds are tinted;
the colour of the sky.
mary angela douglas 4 july 2019
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