Moving Day

unheard melodies are sweeter John Keats said

sometimes I feel they are the only ones left

the Emperor's nightingale sings on

over the graves of everyone

do angels listen then

do angels listen to those who have no friends

who mumble to themselves in odd corners.

perhaps an angel is standing right there

receiving it all into a gramophone

that plays in Heaven.

how to speak we learn our ABCs.

we form words.

sometimes our parents are pleased

we can ask for the bread and butter

we say small words and feel their glow.

I thought that words would be my coinage

in the world but I found the sound of words

drifting from me oblivious as snow when I turned

to another and said anything,

even the dictionary meanings ah sad gleanings

beautiful language has been evicted from the world

must fight its way through crowds

must learn to listen to its own pearlescent echoing

and someday to stop sobbing.

they kept returning like a letter sent

all the words that I had lent

to everyone in the world that moved recently

is everyone moving then

is this the general moving day

to escape the velocity of words

half heard and down a bruised alley.

everyone's moving away from the unheard melodies

I will collect them now like fallen leaves

and press them into the hold of

the Lord's quiescent, listing ship of snows

mary angela douglas 23 april 2020