Are you there, at the edge of vision
Just beyond sight, the grass around your body
Bent as a servant to a king
A voice of the river, breath as the rolling sea
In inkspot shade spilling from the trees
Lord of the brambles, the twisted root
Leading away from you, gnarled along the path into shadow
With eyes on me, helpless and still
Longing to bridge the gap and burn the page
Together in the field, waiting for the sky to take us?
Or does the path end in a wall of thorns
The trees speak nothing but the sighing wind
The sun shine down on an empty field?
Is your voice a fading dream
My hand closed on emptiness, longing for the touch of a ghost?
Are you there?

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels