And The Incoming Tide Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

I think of toys, of vanished children

of deep pockets in old storybooks

perhaps a caramel or two I


might fish out wrapped in gold foil,

the silver net of dreams.

I think perhaps it was all sugarplum


bright, Eden without exception

the cream, real cream in the coffee

the steam from old radiators rising


and their clanking announcements

it's January mornings. or it's April chill

old Fords built to last.


oh my surmising heart

from fiddle stix and pick up sticks

in every shade inlaid


I wander there in proverbial attics

and wonder why they retired

the chintz chairs. the cottage furnished


with everything echoing flowers, flowers

the maple and the lemon leaves

flying against blue windowpanes


blue windowpanes and sticking there

Jack Frost, the hurricane lamp it's flare on

oilcloth, tablecloth, bone china


the cracks in the window frames

letting in all the stars.


the candy jars

where once we ate our fill.

geraniums on the window sills


brave and scarlet.

and Sunday newspaper thoughts of brides

with stephanotis held high


the silvered, pearled bouquets

and the incoming tide.


mary angela douglas 24 august 2018