These Longings

These Longings

The brush of a cool wind

On your face

For a moment

All is empty and silent

A pebble thrown in a lake

Falls, deeply into emptiness

Concentric circles arise

Pulse in constant repetition

Melt into one another

Followed by silence

Gone is the mirror

Its passing perfection

Will never be the same again

For a moment

There is not a trace of warmth

A gentle hushing rain falls

The wind knows your secrets

Wherever you are walking

You are

And yet you are not

A great silence descends on you

Moment by moment

Reality flows

Everything is clear

These longings

Are nothing

But the coming and going

Of ancient, restless ghosts

© Ann Bagnall 2013.


2 thoughts on “These Longings

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