hearing was like the flutter of doves
speaking like singing the wind through the grasses
or the high stars, chaparral,
the scuttle of foam on seas
and poetry what was poetry then
but all the light
as far as the heart could see
no impediment.
birdsong at rest or cresting the rainbow permanence
we were heirs to then
we were there
though to you it may not seem so
thinking we are the brides of an incontrovertible ignorance.
we were there we remember it the glance of emeralds at dawn
from every rose capped lawn
though with an insouciant rumbling
the world would drown out the slightest gleam in us now
we still go on living there
somehow: in every fugitive dream.
mary angela douglas 21 october 2021;20 april 2023
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