My Horn's To The Hunt In This My Living Day

(for Professor Louis A. Markos, (HBU)
Champion of the magic; of the immortal beauty of Poetry

we speak in husks that the wind drives;how can poetry live
except that it abide in every small veined leaf and in the green groves.the green groves are dead the post modern poets said tricking the ghosts of Arcady

but I looked too and I knew, I knew this was lies;
green does abide and every pulsing star
it’s you that have gone numb, blind and words with you

who cast it all aside as if it were never purled.

dear is the earth and after cleanest rains the air is fresh
the pale bud thrives again
and I can breathe through much of new disdain and the dust dowered

winds and call back the Cid, the sere my friends my friends
the burnished annals of the years;faint idylls of the King;
andthe Queen's remonstrances;

the pennants from the battlements of gold

flung in the breezes still.
acute the will for beauty and the clarion filled
the rose from the Heart of Rose distilled and the far dimensional

my horn’s to the hunt in this my living day
the thirst for it undiminished though all else fade to grey.
we lift the latch, where none of it passed away..

mary angela douglas 13 april 2020;rev. 23 may 2020