The Writer At The End Of Stories Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

in his later stories
maybe his fingers froze
down to the last candle

cutting out the final patterns
to be sewn
and basted down

and watching the town already
go on without him.
still, there is the sun on the snows

in pink pools as if rose gardens
buried there
almost came up for air

and there is always within him
a sailing green starred moon
even down to a crescent

of her former self

mary angela douglas 19 january 2016