Ghost on Ghost, November In The Woods

ghost on ghost, November in the woods
and bubbling up through heavy mist
their voices little understood

I think I hear something of their blunted songs
and I drift on too.

we want to go to the beginning of the measure
to play it perfectly through
but there's no concert but the dew

the mold impenetrable fog
the sun trying to get through
to you in clouds of amethyst

a birthstone lost among the leaves.
how is it so easy to get turned around here
to be going around in the circle of yourself

a lonely treble and no staff at all

or the self you think you knew;you used to Be.
but we are vanishing banished through and through
because we loved the purple words best

and would not recant.
the ants are frozen in their small
huts of rust coloured sand

I think I know who I am again
the balletic poem turned out.
how lovely this illusion is

and every may be

while it lasts but the song is overcast.
only the plain remain.

we are not in the land we think we were
and all the leaves whirl up
and cover the sun.

mary angela douglas 14 october 2019