(to the poet William Butler Yeats)
someday, may all lost roads converge
where we have traveled wearied and alone
a desert to ourselves
no water for a stone.
at times the heralding angels seemed to close in
and then and then
that music fades away
how is it we seem to have gone through centuries this way
and the clock at only 3 who can say
whether afernoon or in the midling night
of the same the same day
still I have tuned the strings of my bent lyre
to the old music, flaking of rose gold
beating of wings against the heavy air o where
still the same yearning will bud into a song
I know it will: only be still
my ancient sorrow we may yet float
beyond the bounds of music to sing to sing
to Thee to rise from weariness, footsore yet
with inexplicable brightness clothed
like those like those of old
on the brink of Jerusalem and the holy gates
who learned to wait
to find again the pearl of dawn
the rood of the Rose remembered
the earthquake shift on the page
where the birds are jubilant
the old dreams return.
mary angela douglas 25 december 2020
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