Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London...
-from an Old English fairy tale: Dick Whittington And His Cat
how could you make of this language a desert track
and spurn the illumination of a distant age
I weep slow tears upon the page
knowing for certain rich gardens once blossomed there
now all is arid and spare
twigged is the landscape absent of birds
and men have banished the golden words
the words the honeyed worlds had spun
remember Shakespeare, Keats and Donne
what have you done o lachrimae pavane!
their words had dazzled the sun
and blinded prose
or Yeats had plucked his beleaguered Rose
out of the dire web of a faithless. degenerate Time
and given a voice to dreaming again
and called the ancient musical winds
back to their Source
that you have forfeited for dubious hire
without a single shot being fired.
mary angela douglas 20 january 2022
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