The Missing
The sun now stalls
halfway up its climb
and skims a course
barely above the trees.
The swallows have gone.
Spaces once filled
with brightly coloured wings
and crawling things
are now empty.
What is missing
has hollowed out
the day and left nothing
but vacated shells
and casings hanging
like trophies
on abandoned webs.
An absence has taken hold.
You move into the gaps
left by others, make trinkets
of ice to hang on branches
that have lost their leaves.
Every winter
is the same, has you
gathering what remains
of yourself, trying to fill
the spaces left
by what is missing,
knowing you can't,
and never will
as each winter passes
you lose a little more
of yourself until, one day,
there will be nothing left
and you will become
the thing that is missing.
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