It was a dream.
No vaulting ambition,
just a late flowering
of homely joys, small treats,
warm comfortings.
Hope sung, gleaming
like an iridescent orb
fine spun as gossamer
caught on the wind.
Yet crushing fear crept in
and fractured every shard.
So felled by lassitude
of chances lost
I lie, regretting.
© Gill Dunstan
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