Angelabra

we'll leave our imprint on some other realm
when all the pages have turned to snow
so that we won't be read here anymore

on earth where moonlight comes and goes
or slides behind clouds
because it cant find its soul

when there's no more auroras
on the printed page.
how many candles are in the sun

the birthday child had every one blown out
before she reached the nursery stairs
and somewhere, in Heaven the household bells have rung

and someone small is at the door of pearl.

we were the whirl in autumn leaves the red and gold
the stories too late to be told
presumptive happy endings.

you will dip  your hand in rosewater
tracing the frost just so on the only window
where the ghosts of roses blow

in forgotten gardens.
and out on the lawn my Grandmother cries,
missing us so;

because of lies, they took us from her
in a year that could have been a century.

mary angela douglas 22 august 2019