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

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