John Keats Between, What Is Written, What Is Dreamed

between what is written
and what is dreamed
I saw a thin, a golden margent

and the seas rushing over it
the seawall, the rushing words
becoming music, after all

in the tree shade as it was remembered
and the days dripping down like the honeycomb
the moon, its silver door left ajar.

come tell me where you are now
something called.
I couldn’t say it all

in nightingales, in urns
in the mauve turning of the stair
into the everywhere

I tried.
until I died.

a maiden cried:
plant myrtle- here.

mary angela douglas 4 october 2018