It is 4am again, this ungoverned hour
when the night thins and the world lies silent
and even the wind seems reluctant
to disturb what has gathered in the corners of the dark
at 4am, memories seep into my dreams
like the damp seeps through stone
the clock insists upon its small tyrannies
tick, tick, tick, each second a soft hammer
against the walls of sleep, I quietly rise without rising
my body remains but my spirit walks elsewhere
at 4am the past does not knock, it claims residence
and like an old companion it knows the way
through every fracture in the dark
I think of you and my mind becomes a cathedral
at 4am, every echo magnified, every prayer unanswered
I cross that bridge again, the one suspended over nothing
creaking with the weight of what might have been
hope is a faint lantern in my trembling hand
but at 4am, I belong to the in-between
to the hour that does not heal, but reveals
to the place where my ghosts sit beside me
whispering gently, reminding me that absence
is not an ending, but a pause
©Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 