Atlantic light
scintillated through each atom of glass
on the summer solstice morning,
the morning I tried to reanimate you

the nostalgic moments,
hunting keepsakes,
familiarity in the faces of strangers,
regretted in this fickle heart

the weighted days
leaving lavender garlands,
scrying your return in mirror-pools,
collected in this paper heart

the candles and prayers,
charms and portents,
constant incantations in vain,
captured in this wicker man’s heart

like your ghost
only visible at dawn
shimmering in the doorway, like
dust caught in my lashes

Patrik Gryst


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