CINDERELLA. CENDRILLON

 

On the memory of seeing Mary Pickford's 'Cinderella or the Little Glass Slipper' on a children's toy projector one silent film childhood Christmas; the companion piece was a Mickey Mouse short feature; my father was driven to desperation every time he was asked to thread that impossibly small machine (and we asked him a lot) .

to my mother and father for separate beautiful reasons -                             

feather-stitching these glass shadows       

silent frame by frame

how could you help but wonder                 

later on

what all the shattering was for? 

then you were telling us stories

in the dark green garden chair…

let it not be said

that is where the story ends…

Cinderella.  Cendrillon.

though it may not be magic-

you can't be blamed for

storms on a distant sun

am I the only one who sees

those

sunspots seeping through

the mystical rustling in the orchards-

where did they come from? 

where did you? 

here are the crystals, sequined- still-

in my lost hand- you may find missing

from your gown, your head, your heart

soft lemon afternoons like the ones in Renoir.

somehow, it all gets scattered in the dark

and you wonder where to stand

in a flickering brilliant language seldom used

except in a few newsreel half-projections

on the wall-the year in semi-review-

whose year was that? 

it wasn't mine-

though it might be said

and surely was, that

music was her last diadem,

 

even when she fled

leaving all Enchantment behind her-

so they said-

and her bright skirts swirling

like the dream of Light itself

in a receding universe

and tearing her pale

raspberry satin hem-

it must have been that colour…                

on every hazel twig in sight

barely above ground...

God lives in the remnants

so she smiles, opening her birthday gifts

of clocks that never chime; 

putting in water the bunches of violets

that last and last...

you cannot fail to notice, even now,                      

that earliest sparkling is best and the

last to leave the party under the trees she

says to

her crystal children on the breeze,

the one with the paper lanterns

no longer living.

my darlings, don't get lost

beyond the pink glass frosted

fawn on the walnut what-not…

so we promised not to-

and to live on where rose curtains swayed

Cinderella.  Cendrillon…

shine out of sight, yourself, alone-

you'll know more than angels in

the end for you are good-

the best clue in all the kingdom

after a lifetime spent 

rinsing out your pale peach

print (or is it pink) again and again

hoping not to be found

but just to be left

here dreaming…

and slipping the slipper carefully

into an apron of cloud…

mary angela douglas 9 april 2012