it isn't enough to go into the mists;
you should be mist yourself
to find him;
to think you have
till you have dreamed
with no parenthesis;
you won't take notes
but freeze there in the hedges
(only a little, he said)
and that's how music starts:
viola, moon bright
for the Invisible.
come in, said he, it's getting dark
and we'll have tea
of orange blossom, lime
perhaps with something tart
only a little icing hinting cherries, apricots
and will you have some more?
he inquired how the book was
coming along or is it at all
there? in a green silk chair
was he suddenly quiet
hands in his pockets in and out of time
before strange candies melting
there, like twilight, clouds
by the China cabinet
leads you to ask but you can't:
whose childhood is this, anyway?
of anything, vanishing-
less like Carroll, he said kindly
more like the Christmas Feast
once the Star near trembling, sets;
the snowlight of these shadows flees;
the drifts.. I was an early spring, too late
profiled near the sweet peas in an evening garden
moonstruck to the core
you won't forget me...?
mary angela douglas 25 october 2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem