When The Swans Turned Home Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

it isn't fair could she have said
to the chill in the corners:
these impossible fairytale deadlines...

here is the room of straw.
the task of gold.
and not much time at all

for learning now what you should have learned,
then. so tears begin and the question of the hour:

will winter ever set?
and then a bargain's made
with trolls in a bad temper.

is there any other way?
and coach worthy pumpkins are sorted from the patch;
rag bags fetched into gowns.

or in a room of forest green
mute as an ancient spell
the princess weaves seven shirts

and one with an unfinished sleeve
that will forever be a wing
when the swans turn home.

mary angela douglas 13 january 2015