…in the aching void

A grey mist predicts the rain, there is a rustling in the wind
sadness, an uninvited guest
peach blossoms drifting down, an anomalous melancholy
I see myself reflected in the stillness of the lake
and like the shadows on the wall
it reveals things, once hidden in the light
rising up from the ripples, I find your face
painted in colours that only my heart could perceive
out of the pale gold sea of time
over the countless steps and the years that separate
like a rainbow in a stormy sky, a fragment of joy
but the lightest touch of a fallen silken blossom
and the vision is shattered like fragile glass
and you are lost to me again
sailing away, ever adrift in the aching void
© Ann Bagnall