in previous scenes the lark sang all night long
the moon imbued the apple trees
with a strange silvering of the leaves
and gazing from the gabled windows
I and my compatriots believed
believed in poetry that it was all around us within us
God given like the night quenching dew
or the violets edging
the woods behind our school
where we played we could rule
over the beautiful even then.
what has it come to now?
a few slogans about dystopia?
somewhere the same old kingdoms
await us as if we were in our memories turned to be
ourselves rhe coming of Arthur
the swelling of the tide
that bears the sailors home.
mary angela douglas 14 march 2020
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