If I peer hard enough
I can still see the impression of your body
a ghost amid the tumbled cushions,
and in the woven pattern of a table lamp
I imagine your shadowy features in profile.
An empty wine glass waits patiently,
I leave it there on purpose
and the shapeless knitting bag
wedged between the legs of the table,
like Bagpuss I used to say.
Your clothes and your scent
still hang and linger in the bedroom,
but it is here on this sofa
that your image rests.
I can see you, I make myself see you,
but I cannot hear the bells.
© Graham Sherwood 4/2014
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