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But Gone

by Amanda Ferguson

He reached and found his old and battered heart
And quickly threw it open on the bed.
He folded in her long dark hair, her way
Of listening with her eyes closed tight, and so
Tore up a memory, paper-thin, the two
Of us, warm raspberries in his granny’s yard,
Red-fingered, holding hands. Then smoothed his hair,
Checked his reflection in the glass, and crept

                     And having burnt the toast, I turned
To own my crime, and saw him, just the same
As every day, his paper propped up on
The cornflake box; same eyes, same tally lines
Around his mouth (the tunes, the smokes, the heads
Of daughters kissed), just sitting there. But gone.

Amanda Ferguson lives in Oxfordshire, working as a freelance copywriter.

See links to all sonnets by this author

Pat Jones
Published 23 August 2011