There's in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadorned but
fair-featured and smelling of
apples or grass.
a utopian smock or shift, her hair
is light brown and smooth, and she
is kind and very clean without
but she has
And there's a
turbulent moon-ridden girl
or old woman, or both,
dressed in opals and rags, feathers
and torn taffeta,
who knows strange songs
but she is not kind.
Why should my sleepy heart be taught
To whistle mocking-bird replies?
This is another bird you've caught,
Soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes.
The bird Imagination,
That flies so far, that dies so soon;
Her wings are coloured like the sun,
Her breast is coloured like the moon.
Weave her a chain of silver twist,
And a little hood of scarlet wool,
And let her perch upon your wrist,
And tell her she is beautiful.
The gleam of an heroic Act
Such strange illumination
The Possible's slow fuse is lit
By the Imagination.
Two nights I have dreamed of you
Once as an adolescent, evanescent
Yet tangible still to the spirit’s touch,
Then as a ten year old in the shared
Secret garden of our imagination.