it's always sad and languorous
in the poems of that country
I can't go there anymore
they're reading my miranda rights
from shore to shore
bouncing like a pink cloud over the devastations for
the lack of bread seems like a wedding to me
if there is any sun at all
and one true God to lean upon
there the brittle straw will never be spun to gold
there's so much melancholy
why would I want to grow old there
anyway, I won't be let in
should I say I am sorry the moonlight makes me happy
even behind the clouds
that I treasure a gulp of that air more than wine
and that I shall always love the moss bright poems
of damask roses and eglantine
and want to mention them in my Song;
they wouldn't hear me;it's been so long.
mary angela douglas 20 february 2022;18 march 2023
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