To John Keats, Not Only Written On Water

you are an enamel on the wind;
you with your bright clock ticking;
a tangle of myrhh and extravagance

bewildering the starlight;
dazzling past Time, infused with gold
well beyond wondering.

bitter honour conferred

or not conferred,
the nightingale has flown to you
and will not depart.

mary angela douglas 8 november 2015

She Dreams Of His Death

[to Fanny Brawne and to John Keats...]

it's in the garden or it's in my heart,

his nightingale singing in the mulberry tree;

the orchards beyond remembrance now.

the universe was rich with petals;

the heart is filled with snows.

it's in the garden or its in my heart.

am I the one that knows?

am I the one with the lifted lamp

using light like a knife?

the uncrowned Queen of all this vanishing.

I vanish too but they won't hold me guiltless.

it's in the garden or it's in my heart

my love my love my love

mary angela douglas 2 february 2015