The Merely Imagined Author Writing The Life Of De La Mare

it isn't enough to go into the mists;
you should be mist yourself
to find him;

to think you have
till you have dreamed
with no parenthesis;

you won't take notes
but freeze there in the hedges
(only a little, he said)

and that's how music starts:
viola, moon bright
for the Invisible.

come in, said he, it's getting dark
and we'll have tea
of orange blossom, lime

perhaps with something tart
only a little icing hinting cherries, apricots
and will you have some more?

he inquired how the book was
coming along or is it at all
there? in a green silk chair

was he suddenly quiet
hands in his pockets in and out of time
before strange candies melting

there, like twilight, clouds
by the China cabinet
leads you to ask but you can't:

whose childhood is this, anyway?

of anything, vanishing-
less like Carroll, he said kindly
more like the Christmas Feast

once the Star near trembling, sets;
the snowlight of these shadows flees;
the drifts.. I was an early spring, too late

profiled near the sweet peas in an evening garden
moonstruck to the core
you won't forget me...?

mary angela douglas 25 october 2014

by Mary Angela Douglas

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