for the Russian filmmaker, Andrei Tarkovsky
sometimes in the absence of light
we imagined the sun
collected through secret prisms
as if you were the only collector left
in a film by Tarkovsky.
there the leaves grow sodden
through black and white scenes
yet insistently they whisper, Come,
the Zone is breaking apart
as though it were a heart
while you evade its gates, your natal star;
and you’ve become they’ll tell you, every one,
the last known weather vane spinning
among the dreamers of dreams.
there Time has split its silver seam
and runs on
into the measures
where the Listeners have come
into their own.
into late landscapes occluding the moon
there your waylaid vision shone
on the lost coordinates of where you are
in the Dream Time vouchsafed you.
there the small comets weep
into the borrowed mirrors of the fleet,
are we that handful of stars?
and you are only a quarter note asleep in the music
of a beautiful egress
when with your childhood pail
you hurry to where They are
looking for little diamonds smashed
there where the Ark of dreams
has not yet come to rest;
it one day, will
mary angela douglas 4 january 2019
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