that sorrowful music passing like a dream
I heard when summer verged on autumn
for perhaps the last remembered time
in my father's house.
the swan, passing from existence
is in other realms now
it was then too
though I did not know the myth.
Just Sibelius, floating through no open window.
I would give anything to be on the trail of that music
as I was then
still among friends
with the slate from around that house in my pocket
its sunset colours for remembrance. as the amulet
to let me in.
how many layers it takes to paint a sunset
on the back of a risen wing.
mary angela douglas 4 october 2021
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