A DREAM OF CAROLYN, IN THE AFTERLIFE

 

I dreamed that the feelings of people in dreams

were evident as stained glass colours shimmering

the warmth of heart returning to hearth in the afterlife

barrows

and that one got there by walking steadfastly over the moors

or at least, you did, and by free will

or indeterminate plains where the mist unrolled

and walking firmly, alone and breathing naturally

bent on a purpose you could not say, but that you knew 

anyway, seeking no company content to be yourself

looking as you did in May

but strong again

and you walked on unperturbed and deep in thought

needing no guide

and you walked on whether it was day or night the mist

covered it all, covered the sun, the moon

you were solitary walking there as solitary as ever Wordsworth

was

in his tranquil recollections

not as blind as Milton

not blind at all

happy when you reached the waystation.

but infinitely calm

it was made of aged grey stone alternatively

a great, grave mansion

but filled with light inside

with the stained glassed refractions

with people you knew long ago

offering small rich gifts which surprised you

and yet did not surprise as if you already knew

all this would happen and

quiet happiness.

but you knew you were not yet home.

at a traveler's inn, let's say

one so familiar somehow

resting along the Way.

mary angela douglas 19 august 2023