The Morning Sun

As the mist painted the shivering hills,
I watched the sun rise with its full grace.

I miss these mornings with you
when it was only us and the world
faded away, 
but now the sun is here and you are not.

I can see the early rays of winter reach your grave;
with its cold claws clinging to the block of stone
that marks your resting place.

The day led you into the night and left you there
and I watch and think of the days gone past
and the years ahead 
of the life that’s become too long.

I hope to see your shadow
lost in the woods,
but the sun rises and it falls;
the sky is blank,
deep grey smeared across the horizon -
a suffocated version of what beauty was.

Still, tall trees in a hazy wind call my name
in their silence, beckon me within.
Maybe it’s your spirit buried there
that brings the woods to life.

I listen to the whispered song but dare not
venture forward, for you are dead
and the sun has already fallen.



Aldas is a writer from Dublin, Ireland. He has spent the last few years dreaming of a successful and prolific career as a writer; so he earned a Masters in Creative Writing from Loughborough University. His work has been published in TerreneIdle Ink and more. More at:

Collective Realms