a fairy tale river ribboned through the world
visible to some, shining in odd places, shimmering
to little children.
some floated boats on it, some cast necklaces of flowers,
the rainbow broidered merely smiled (mysteriously).
it grew, the fairy tale river, past all we knew
past trees in their summer bowers
and where an unseen music carried us
through livid hours, through warlike ravages of time
still bordered with eglantine, with airy castles
and with cherried towers;
and with cherried towers;
edged sky to sky in Romany and while
the world decried: "Anamalie!"
etched deep beyond the mire of day-to-day
and told at times beside no fires or where
the fires burned low
and when that failed
and all our harps wept winterly on the trees
abandoned to strange orchards
abandoned to strange orchards
on days at home with the door and window locked,
and the little sod crevices
and when it rained
and when authorities complained
still ours to keep
a rose red rose white flame
asleep, awake
we dreamed of.
mary angela douglas 15 march 2015
