as far as day is from night then
you would be tuning your harp
near the rills down to Benbulbin
or where I cannot wind
because I've never been there.
but I have been in poetry
thick as field flowers up to my chin
in it so that the gold rubs off
and I would remember clouds
and their roselit aftermaths
and so much then
that could not be said
any longer, in words.
where has the treasure gone
and who has filched it now.
who will find them again
the lost longings crystallized
the music, measure by measure recalled
the strains of immortal language
falling on the air
like thundering pearl.
and hold it in due reverence.
mary angela douglas 13 september 2019;31july 2023
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