collapsing the towers within myself
I swallowed the bitter ground
the pink and blue crenellations
the sudden upsurge of larks
the varicoloured clouds, in their flight.
and teakettle mornings.
they say villagers in some cases
slated to be captive. stayed up all night
changing their folkloric homes to mist
the little green gates
consigning the grain to stubble
swallowing both riverbank and meadow;
finally the river too.
that the marauders should have
no place to settle
not even air to breathe;
the fable of the pancake
rolling away.
mary angela douglas 12 november 2022;11 februaey 2023
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