(to J.M. Barrie)
strange world we are always leaving
all the time every night we leave in
dreams not knowing how to get back;
some don't.
some leave in the middle of the afternoon
barely packed or
before daybreak or even the dew
on the grass is settled;
and now, it is lock-out time for sure and who
has the key or keys…
or knows if there was even a road
before it rained there
or a single feature, footstep
fastened with snow…
think. how many times can it be
really not the same for you who
are still here
and still the one charged with
watching them disappear
and there's no answer to that, brief angels…
though I may look clear through
your april shadows
layered green-on-green
knowing less than ever now.
and the leaves are leaving the leaves and
the trees,
the flowers are leaving the fields and the
small bouquets, the clouds leave the sky
but the sky never leaves without
leaving a thread of having once been:
some kind of gleaming over rooftops…
and a glittering, somewhat, in the curve of
your small hands-
though you did not notice, at first…
children leave themselves the most,
the longer they live
almost breaking in two sometimes to see
If something is still behind them,
trying to catch up:
like a shadow, but not a shadow;
strange world, to be always leaving us
ever distant from ourselves:
beyond disarray.
I will try yes I will try
not to be the last one scolded:
and so slow on the job at sweeping up
(it's what they always say)
all these lost coronations…
curled ribbons, collapsing suns
knowing that God is still writing
somewhere, Farther On-
with a purple stylus on
His diamond clouds
and never flickering;
I believe. even to the last
dram of all colours,
fading fast and always…
mary angela douglas 25,28 march 2012
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