We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage / And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, / We Poets of the proud old lineage / Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ... (James Elroy Flecker)

8.1.24

Missing


‘Will no-one find me, no-one come

looking for me on this cold night?’

Her mind despairs. The stars are bright


but cannot lead her back to home.

Her way is lost. She drifts: a ghost,

a shadow, vague as mist or foam –


believing nothing can come right.

Will no-one find her? No-one come?



Based on a news story about a missing woman, and her last few posts on social media.



Form: octain


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