we will dress in rose colours we thought
when we grow older in prints of more intricate,
delicate design, with lace tatted collars
or I don't know
an opaline sense of time
of timing in the music
of the concertos where glasslike
we dwell between movements
and the charming chime
of the angelabras at Christmas
I have mentioned many times
in other poems I know
not being able to recover
from the beauty of snow
of snowing of all the tenses of snow
in which I long to speak but in a way
in which there is no vanishing;
no need for piano transcriptions
of the vanished.
mary angela douglas 16 september; 18 september 2022
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem