dancing was never like this
and to tell the story true
it never would have been
if she had listened to her Grandmother
but now the toe shoes sparkled
crimson under moonlight
and she couldn't stop turning
so that the birds flew up
from the trees
with their vivid dreams
and the forest ferns glittered
with indifferent dews
and still she floated o beautiful
a cobweb flecked with ruby half lights
on her own
incapable of anything else
but breathing
until the organ sounded
and the break of day
resounded with the bells
and weeping, weeping
where the steadfast angels stood
in columns out of the deep woods
she turned again, home.
mary angela douglas 6 august 2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem