[for the poet Dylan Thomas)
as you were singing that the givers of Light
would have no end that the green rills
growing greener would furl in waves
about us ever near and clearer from year to year
and that the sun dipped in the clouds down low
would ever arise
somewhere farther beyond your white roads' chrism
we forgot that poetry is not prose
and no longer gathered the rose upon rose in praise
the once upons.
so that the prismed web broke
apart weeping and with it the human heart
my heart and where
and what and how in Art will the angels come
to trouble the springs again my friend
my friend so that healing descends
when your voice is stilled
when the news is all we know
I cannot comprehend
only that vaguely
blue and darker blue with the dusk
as your disguise the village from afar
you'll view
and weep for Wales and all you knew
the vast tendrils conquered and subdued
for all that meant to you.
and we go casting about in sighs
mere ghosts of ourselves
forgetting what you knew.
that bright words, should not be spare
but myriad, like the stars.
mary angela douglas 24 november 2016; 22 october 2021
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