Her Own Way.
How was Florence?
But she never answered.
She’d been there with him
the guy with the dark eyes
and wallet the size she liked.
Did you see the art and the sites?
She stood and unpacked her bags,
emptied the dirty linen in the bins
in the washroom. Thank you for
the postcard; I liked the artwork.
She looked tired, her skin was pale.
Jetlagged, you surmised. Are you
coming out for a meal? For a drink?
She sat in the armchair, closed her
eyes. You sat opposite and stared.
There where you thought she sat,
emptiness gazed back. Her ghost
frequently visited at that time of day;
even in death she had her own way.
Terry Collett's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Her Own Way. by Terry Collett )
- thy love to me, binod bastola
- Come to me I am here, gajanan mishra
- The Phonecall Generation, Aidan Cost
- Sleepless Nights, Mimi Ahmed
- Truth is opening, gajanan mishra
- I Am Afraid, Amitava Sur
- How then?, Alem Hailu Gabre Kristos
- Cholesterol, Dr PJ Raj Kamal
- A Confession, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- My Dog Lays at My Feet, David McLansky
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- 1914 V: The Soldier, Rupert Brooke
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)