I wander slowly from the battle-scene;
no turning back to see the debris fall.
Filled with red light warnings in place of dreams;
I miss your good intentions most of all.
Crossing many ages on a mission —
shadowing angel visions from the past —
a stratospheric mid-air collision
became a question rather than a blast.
Though you say you’re there I cannot see you.
Slipping through my fumbling fingers, taken
by surprise, there’s nothing to appeal to.
Quizzical, I struggle to awaken.
Here is my hand, as steady as a rock.
I came for you but ready you were not.
© 2011, Alan Morrison