the seashell of the darkness
coded with pink light in such small stars
and hear the star music,
as if it were as familiar a thing
as teacups
just before waking up
what could you know about the history of light
but you felt it.
find in grown over shrubbery in dreams
the cottage of a distant scene, the playhouse remembered
and the blackberry vines
and strangely, feel at home there
and think nothing of it of Time
not even the fisher price playroom wall clock
with its see through to red, blue and green
plastic cogs
did you see through what seemed opaque
to anyone else as if glimpsing
flowers before their blooming
the beauty accomplished
birds just before their launches into song
the treble notes trembling in the dew on the leaves
the robins egg blue skies when it was thundering
surely Grandmother must have seen
prescient as she was, like Maeterlinck
the light streaming mysteriously
as you did, mellow through the living room's
fleur di lis globe
or notice the cloud the one cloud
suddenly tipped with vermillion tipping over
or sing as you did
the secret names of ferns
when only the wind was listening
and perhaps one small chirping bird
on the pavement of dreams
everafter all sparrows would seem to you
golden
though you lost or never found the reasons why
towards Easter the light settling over the irises
underneath the piano studio window
seemed gilded beyond the ordinary
affected by my sister's hours of beauteous practice
producing small tears in the corners of your eyes
in the pale green coldness
of early Spring afternoons when heard from outside
soon, too soon now the fairytale endings
o stop, Time, even for a minute!
but even then, weren't we always
drifting away with the moon
our house and everything everyone in it.
mary angela douglas 27 september 2022;21 february 2023 9
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