Ghost On Ghost, November In The Woods Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

ghost on ghost, November in the woods

and bubbling up through heavy mist

their voices little understood

I think I hear something of their blunted songs

and I drift on too.

we want to go to the beginning of the measure

to play it perfectly through

but there's no concert but the dew

the mold impenetrable fog

the sun trying to get through

to you in clouds of amethyst

a birthstone lost among the leaves.

how is it so easy to get turned around here

to be going around in the circle of yourself

a lonely treble and no staff at all

or the self you think you knew; you used to Be.

but we are vanishing banished through and through

because we loved the purple words best

and would not recant.

the ants are frozen in their small

huts of rust coloured sand

I think I know who I am again

the balletic poem turned out.

how lovely this illusion is

and ever may be

while it lasts but the song is overcast.

only the plain remain.

we are not in the land we think we were

and all the leaves whirl up

and cover the sun.

mary angela douglas 14 october 2019