ours were the emerald currencies of Oz
the slipstream of the fairy tales regained
the loop through time
of the fanciful,
barnstorming over
spent fields of grain.
I have saved the paperbacks from school fairs
the books redolent as apples.
and cloud filled music:
tree filled, with birds
singing without stint
and mother-of-pearled,
for these relentless hours.
and vivid flowers in
fading precints;
yards and yards of
the home flowers
that I might be cut from
that pattern only
and all the neglected bowers of Keats.
against the dream quenching-
this laborious world
a faery bright defense;
the arc of infinite colour
unsubmerged
the kingfisher flash and burn
of God
whose phoenix Name-
who, o who dares tarnish.
mary angela douglas 8 october 2015
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem