I DREAMED OF THE SEA, OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR

I dreamed of the sea, of the Children of Lir
coming through the mists of their childhood
unrecognizably

oh beyond reach

let words be fought for but
what am I supposed to say

when saints have courted endlessly

the hard and diamond edge of
your impossible retrieval?

when are you coming home

o vivid heart eluding
bereavement, banished wing-
are you carving the thick tiered

wedding cake mists as if they

belonged to you?
when will you find rest

beating the crystal air to a

fine snow over centuries;
are you very nearly free

or do you dream your muted

carillons below
have all passed on?

it is a real question.

are you?
stay alive can you

be carried sleeping into

deeper exiles over
God's bright shoulder?

it is a real question are you

finding no more countries left
for you

on earth...

I lived as some suggested

sending golden transcripts off
somewhere into space

from brilliant institutions no one ever heard of

and the envelope sealed with evensong and
all the mauve distances dissolving...

are you the one

bargained over at sales
not open to the general public-

subject to steering committees

charged
with capturing the data?

let us return, unopened,

frailer than snow and so unchartered
to live in Danish stories, after all-

dreaming of journeys

over long waters
looking at light

through the spent leaf

and the mottled cloud
as if at a kingdom
somehow lost to me

still still my own

prospective student,

employee, friend,
any person at all:

launched to the unfairytale-like

docket with a
mirage-like defense

jump over the railing!

there's no qualifying ground

for one so fey and the wild swans must
move through
the lilac foaming of their weariness.

it is also true

the glimmer of your sunset mind
is a sheen of no use to them at all

and will count against you at the agencies

more than the questions you leave

blank

when you're combing the waves
oh not

for 3 good references and a jacket

they can believe in.

then you'll descend, dear

Christmas-bright contestant, saint
like the exemplary

Children of Lir with your

one cloud-sleeve unfinished
down to the violet waterline at last:

caught up by sudden angels on command-

recommended by the wounded Trinity-

weeping poems and

the clear bells
of little stars

mary angela douglas 16 august, 14 august, 20 july 2011