Something For Arthur Rubinstein Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

even earlier you were beginning to be connected
to something no longer on earth
so that ghosts of white orchid hearing their music played

so rarely, paused to weep
and then forgot they were.
it may have been on impossible blue evenings

someone begins to perceive and weeping sings
or tries to say:
who can hold the note of rapture

in a noteless age..
now music is a shriek
and echoes fade

breaking away,
as if they were continents=
from the main

mary angela douglas 29 august 2018