BLAKE (FINAL VERSION REPOSTED)

BLAKE (FINAL VERSION) [to William Blake the visionary poet, so illuminated) 1757-1827) I saw you walking the hills of green. angels on either side of you, conversing and cherry-bought bells resounding in the dove-sought skies, such flame-tinged clouds appearing: yes, and the fleece of skies that you loved once- the cirrus roses... you were so happy with an ink-stained smile- peeling a scroll of topaz from a frayed coat pocket, meant for the martyred poets. you said: don't cry anymore all consternation's fled, don't cry, no rose is dead. art is a shining ship, delivered: the choken river's spanned. the mocking charter's been revoked. they hoped your visions were a sinking sun marked by three crosses on a stolen hill, but the day is a flower endlessly fluted, and cut in crystal now where tygers kept their radiant promise- where darkness is banished to a farther castle and the face of the Lamb is so revealed whenever we are speaking in our sheer unfiltered gold of a language and we feel we are still alive, my bartered friend! a bright wind drives your mended sails toward home with the diamond husk of all your poems received, the heart of it believed in when you say that all your trees are filled with singing now where nothing, nothing is a bane how blazingly the Light of every poem remains- mary angela douglas 22 august 2011,2 december 2005,4 october 2023