I dreamed the compass echoes through the distant trees
echo location, from the purple seas of ink that I had
spilled upon the strand in my own handwriting
the nearer to God I felt myself to be.
call it no man's land or where the words melt into stars
the memory of where you are, where you were
compared with where you hoped to be.
it isn't a vast music but it's real
configuring what you feel, what you felt
what you may feel again
upon the compass winds
in variegated colours.
a tattered map of the world.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2023
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