You will see my face


Stirring, silken absence by my side:

I hurt to wake, my heart unknowing leapt

To no resolve; but though your scent may hide

Still the face is kept.


I turn, and in that ghosted after-sight

You feel my gasp; and breathing frosts, I wept.

We’ll live to see it, though we died tonight;

Still the face is kept.



July’s theme, for the challenge I have with Blair (whose blog you should definitely follow, here: is “Sight.” This is a prelude, if you like, which fittingly starts with death. I do love a bit of fictional romance from beyond the veil. I blame reading Wuthering Heights when I was a small person. Anyway. The idea in this one is, what counts as “seeing”? Does the memory of an image count as a sight before our eyes; is the stimulus of light the defining factor, or is it the recognition which leads to sight? I’ve opted for a nice simple ode form, leading to another little question: is it the lover who has died, the narrator, or both? 



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