Longing

I long for a lost and ghostly past, for love and a murmuring forest where beeches, phantom white, were landmarks on the way home. I long for a familiar place of rest, a soft faithful hand and comfort, a warm white woodland cottage with heirloom lilies still in bloom. The dream that passed my way is interrupted now like a movie, the old and brittle film broken and faded to a dark emptiness. And this is a most familiar story, all the bold, naive plans of youth vanished in time's sullen grove, still longing, hoping without hope.