they plough through forests of words and don't look back
relentlessly and the works banked up appear almost as snow
if only they were that alive and the wolfish words follow them
they are on the track the circular, ocular trails that lead them back now
to mountains of words when will it be enough and I want to say
though I dont know their language Lord God. in the stillness
where the stars are achingly silver
I just want to see the flower called snowdrop holding one thawed
drop of rain. You don't have to explain anything to me.
mary angela douglas 18 january 2021
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