How strange – a sonnet

How strange to be gone       the earth floating
through space and you are little more than
a memory      around which the dust is gently
settling     How strange to be silent      how ghostly weird  
to be not a word     not a breath      not a sigh      not a
sign of life       although somewhere under this blue sky
you continue to exist       How strange to be gone
and the way  you went       like a thief in the night      
upon which the stars shuddered      when they learnt       
of your coldness      How strange to be gone     when
everything else remains       the streets      the river
the theatres    the markets   the pubs     the office
where you once worked       and all those  places where

we once made love our own      How strange

John Lyons

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