[on the passing of time]
one day in the rain you turned into watercolours
too bad, no one there to record it.
what lovely puddles
the small child said
splashing through your ghost
or watching your rainbows
trickle down the drains
too young to ask oh
what remains.
I scorched so many things while ironing
out the wrinkles.
remembering the heat that rises
from the radiators too,
midwinters, when being inside alone
is a Christmas in itself
when you are warm
and how this comforts you
pressing your nose against the
frosted glass and
how old wax on the floors
turns yellow as fried eggs
until the pink of sunrise
filters through in even colder dawns:
the bus honks twice then
there is no more school.
mary angela douglas 28 may 2015
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