Annie's Poetry

The moon is bright, still hanging high
on the last threads of the fleeing night
there is a sorrowful cry from a distant bird
slowing spiralling into the heavens
the sky is blushing rose
and a morning mist sits heavy over all
soon to melt and vanish with the sun
the dew touched with the first gold of the day
as the darkness slips away beyond reach
slender threads bleeding into the horizon
like the tendrils of a dream
I feel that ache, that familiar pain
and like that lonely bird
I wish my memories of you
ever sweet and bright
would fade and pass so easily
© Ann Bagnall
2015