…still clinging like fire

Sleep eludes me, an endless need
I feel the abyss, and the fear, curling, under each desire
an undefinable loneliness, my self-inflicted tragedies
undertones and overtures still whispering to me
the dreams of the past are still clinging like fire
I don’t go seeking them but they always find me
in the thin silvered hours when sleep loosens it grip
and the world exhales as though relieved to be briefly forgotten
whatever they mean, it matters
this is when I feel it, the summons, a pull from somewhere
deep beneath consciousness
as certain as the tides, it always begins with whispers
and glimpses of an ancient ghost
a softly spoken invitation read in a familiar voice
that I haven’t heard in years and yet I recognise instantly
I rise without choosing to, my feet moving slowly
as though compelled, by a memory that is older than my name
I quietly enter a clearing as if I am stepping into a dream
that has been dreaming, of me
shadows are gathering on the wall,running their hands over history
the deep grey of stone, sensing its past
the enduring cold, moss-green walls
and now the shadows are shifting like memories
given form and fluid in intent
familiar in ways, that ache in my soul
I feel their gaze, their recognition, their hunger, to be remembered
and somewhere behind me the door of night suddenly closes
locking out the world
a whisper rises, older than sorrow and I see the past, not as scenes
but as the joy I have lost
the faces I once loved, the fears that shaped me
the dreams that burned, before they ever bloomed
they all step towards me
in a solemn silence, for they are the ritual participants
finally claiming their place
and now I understand why I am here
I was called to witness what still burns
to carry it, to honour its persistence
the ritual finally ends with my own heartbeat
echoing loudly, in the hollowed dark
a vow, a tether, a reminder that the past releases me
only when it chooses
and tonight, it welcomed me back
I look at the dappled forest floor, but everything is undisturbed
there is honeysuckle in the air, and once again, all I can see
deep pink petals, swirling into the void
with the slowly drifting leaves
© Ann Bagnall
2014 Revised 2025