the blue road opens up. the colour of irises.
in a dream I am asked to mix the ingredients
but never to sing. but I want to sing.
more than anything
binding rose petals to my song. and little bells.
I mix the ingredients feeling somewhat lowly
I think of the Christian angels
toppling from steeples and the art galleries
oh annunciating ones
whenever the earthquake rumbles through the once upons
the lilies of the field
and gilded by more than the natural sun
I am through with mixing the ingredients
with the mute accumulation of my days
the blue period has ended;the rose one, begun.
I will go out into the gardens of the world enclosed
into the pictures on medieval calendars
to whisper His Name, the foundling stars.
the walls of the town will thicken
as in times of war they did
for Mont-Saint-Michel
Mont-Saint-Michel at the oracular high tides
the aureoles will brighten.
the sea sing of pomegranates and oranges
and unrelatable things in the world of
the deficited imagination but
chalk paintings not be
swept away in the rains
the monsoons washing the colours from the sky
a scrubbed palette I am weary of scrubbing
the pale almost indiscernible moonlight
from the cherry trees,
I continue to love
the Lord God
my one wish on a star
almost granted.my lost behest.
mary angela douglas 14 april 2023
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