though it's not October
with its amber glint
and I have set my soul like flint
to think of the music of Clair de Lune
the ripples of music not out of tune
on the rickety piano inside my head
that glasslike, recorded it all.
what's to remember what's to recall
the harplike song the harplike song
through the open window
of the breezes long departed
and I would chart if ever I could
the worlds it conjured of infinite good
the same trees swaying and the day dream moon
and how I felt when Clair de Lune
filled all my dreams and the vicinity
with what I still cannot emulate in words
clairvoyance dreams me again and again
hearing Debussy in an endless spin
on the world I thought could never end
though its only the ghost of that prelude I hear.
grown more indelible down the years.
gold inked, on a lake of tears.
mary angela douglas 13 february 2023
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