Written 20th September, 2026 entered in September Challenge: Tritina Poetry Contest sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
At dusk, I hear that ghostly call beneath the pale face of the moon; I wander, wishing you were not gone. A curlew’s cry says you’re not gone; yet I am summoned by that call, which spills its silver sorrow on the moon. All reflects the mournful moon; I wait for footsteps, but you’re gone; the curlew keeps its vigil, call by call. Its call beneath the moon names what is gone.
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