wrecked gold of the far illuminations
is coming home
and moonlight sunk in
its own mirrors helplessly
I find forever
in the glazed word you speak.
but april blossoms on the wall
when you bind your luckless
clouds together
and you wound nothing.
imprint this with a spendthrift's sigh
with the knowledge that every colour breathes
the rose you gathered as if it were
long-ago
from very Light.
mary angela douglas 31 august 2011
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