For Ray Bradbury
For Dr. Louis Markos
For Sam Weller
they will not believe your reports
on the ghosts of things seen and unseen
the apple tree traceries, lost to Eden
the Stone's Sword Wielded
the beautiful ghosts, the ones in every colour
that come while frying up bacon or knitting the
day that was raveled in two to the least of you back
together again in every mystical
shade of wool, you wool gatherer you, they mock
you are the mender of words said and unsaid the winder of the Clock of wonders:
the fragrance and the thunders
of beautiful intrepid , wept for fought for overwrought imagination
wrought of the Saints irrevocable way the light and dark of every May to December
Remember! the wild ghosts say;remembered! you whisper and file it away in the curio
cabinet of the far constellations
this cannot be the disbelievers will cry they will gainsay and lie
and shut the golden book in every nation
and every snapshot that you took in the summers of let's pretend, the Pandora box lid
but God will have something to say at last
of all your chronicles of His past, His futures, too
and ring the final years in, the glorias extant
that cannot be dispelled.
by envious men.
mary angela douglas 30 september 2021
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