After You'd Gone

After you'd gone, sometimes we would wake

and find you still there

in the favourite chair,

in the dust-ridden front room

alive with the sunlight streaming in.

And we would speak in surprise,

asking where had you been.

But you could do nothing 

but stare through the cathedral beams

of the morning sun

that magnified your presence.

And then we realised we were not awake,

you were not here,

and we were glad you had not turned

from watching the light to face us,

so we could read the absence

in your eyes.