…of the wind

I stand at the ancient window
as the wind blows down from the mountains of the moon
starlight is gently etched amongst the trembling leaves
constant shifts in perception, shatter the mirror to splinters
and in this magic space, again you disappear in the frozen silence 
it seems you fade forever, it feels a gentle loss
the precious moments held tightly in my hand
the bracken cracks beneath your feet
the mirror is down the reflection is gone
yet this is a moment that never ends
waves of hills flow towards the horizon
your shadow falls across the window
then turning slowly you walk away
leaving only the touch of winter in my aching soul
and the whispering of the wind
© Ann Bagnall