They move through me silently
those I once loved
as if caught in a gentle sea
of celestial debris
I can see them
at the edge of dreams
in the depths of the mirror
not gone, only receding
as the stars, whose light
takes centuries to fade
retrograde motion
an optical illusion
draws them near
spectral fragments
of unfinished stories
time itself falters
and I float amongst them
each ghost an orbit
each orbit a question
that was never resolved
the true meaning of retrograde
not regression, but recognition
a moment when the past
draws close enough
to be mistaken for the present
and I must now choose
whether to believe, in its’ illusion
© Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 