[to J.M. Barrie, author of Peter Pan, Mary Rose...]
the filagree of Time dismantled
and the mists and whatnot, the action rising,
the character of
mist, the voice in mist, all flower-in-a-mist
the chime-and then, gone
disappearing then, chiming
Somewhere Else someone else
declaring undying
love to the mists
but the gold of this syllable flakes
off into...the memory of doves
of the probable rose and the rooms snowing
singeing the silvers of words
of the possible impossibles heard or
unheard
and what if it dissolves at night?
the window is open and the
night air, the night air
the curtains billowing
but whose are they,
the children, when you turn your back
close your eyes or open them again,
then dreaming is everywhere,
nowhere on the tracks as expected
there we were
with our best handkerchiefs waving goodbye
consorting with ghost ships,
walking the planks but not having to die
with the painted moons in our eyes or
in between, entr'act, la sylphide
through the trees
never nearer, almost, clearer,
looking back on the ballets
oh all the orchid ways
at the islands slipping from the maps
all schoolroom wrapped
whenever you take up the book
and read the page
you thought you had
finished, look
it is never finished
we are never finished
mary angela douglas 21 october 2016;rev. 26 june 2022
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