its sick we are of being misconstrued
perhaps the weary and ancient bards feel blue and cheated
in more distant castles now and in a hallowed grumbling
inhabit the marble halls
whenever it comes to mind
in present classrooms that
no one cares anymore
whatever they were singing about
lilted and lilied, lamenting
or if they do it's only to twist the whole thing
into mistaken balloon shapes, something disfigured,
castoffs, from the Fair.
whatever they were singing about
through mist and fog and bog soaked to the bone
alone in the wild
and then by the hearthsides regaling
stringing the harp
and tolerated for awhile
surely cannot compare my compeers
with their hardship now
when all have abandoned the scores of former remembrance and renown
locked castle doors against the ghosts of their songs.
landlocked the glittering seas within them, surging.
you who are meh about them,
I would not meet them now
on the windy plains alone
out walking, under the louring skies.
mary angela douglas 18 may 2023
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