RETURN

 

RETURN

Sometimes I feel the clock of earth

Gets dizzy, forgets its place in the music

And I wake to see the dense fogs settling

Or the clouds in cirrus gold edged display

As if this were another calendar day

In some distant century and I want all of a sudden

To read only 19^th century novels or poetry

To find fresh violets pressed in a volume with an odor of sanctity

Fresh as that Spring from a vanished chapel gathered

Still purpled, light blue as canticles sung by the saints

Only recently

To expect the sound of carriages in the streets

And faintly to feel as though something extremely magical

Had occurred

To feel my soul as if it were distinct from all the Ages

Already beyond Time, incapable of a prosaic return.

Mary angela douglas 28 january 2024