I mourn the loss of you.

Each leaf hanging,

anticipating the wind,

which comes,

which always comes.

And in time I watch you falling.


Sunday morning brings a world still sleeping.

A blanket of mist settles over the crags.

A train rolls and distant cars

trail through the autumn rain.


Birds pierce the skyline

with quiet synchrony.

And I am filled with longing

for you.



By Fiona Lochhead     October 05