…of my illusions

In the rose light of morning
there is a retreat of silence
things are transformed
before my eyes
shivering leaves
shrugging off the dew
just as I shake off the dreams
which always seems to me
an endless pursuit

like chasing a butterfly
who, despite my search
with elegance and grace
still flies high and out of reach
wings trembling
without a sound
as a lonely heart
seemingly unaware
of the constant presence
of darkness

the cool brush of the night
against its fragile form
these are the scarlet flowers
of my illusions
and they are beautiful
sounding out of the shadows
like the mournful echoes of you
© Ann Bagnall