This Is Not A Consolation Prize Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

to Rupert Brooke

this is not a consolation prize,
she said silverly,
the moon in the skies so often

and the silk of clouds surrounding it;
lacework of winter trees, sunset reveries
and unexpected winds that rise

as you are walking by no seas.
and earth smells after rain, all mixed
with fern.

however hard you try you could
never buy them, earn them, win them;
overide-

this beauty spilling out from every side
of God's mysterious cabinets.

mary angela douglas 3 july 2014