I'd Rather Dream It So (Final Version) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

perhaps they migrated from a fairy tale
the secret unseen birds I sometimes hear at night
or long before dawn seems to have streaked winter's light
across my filmy windowpane's blue chill;
green was their clime, perhaps by emperors designed
it may be from an emerald time and really distant gardens.
or have they sifted through a high angelic view
with their unlooked for serenades?
I'd rather dream it so
than more precisely, know

mary angela douglas 19 october 2021; 3 may 2023

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