Longing (II)

Sometimes I think longing

is the truest part of me,

that small ache

beneath every joy,

the shadow even light can’t erase.

I walk the moor at dusk,

mist closing around the heather.

Somewhere, a bird calls once

and is gone.

The sound leaves a shape in the air,

and I follow it, foolishly, tenderly,

as if it might lead me home.

Perhaps this is what the heart is for,

to stretch itself thin

against the horizon,

to want what it cannot keep,

and keep wanting.

The sea knows it,

its endless reaching

for the shore

that always slips away.

And still,

how beautiful the reaching.