Moving On Poem by christine mcCherry

Misty, hazel eyes smile
from a dark wood frame.
An age of dust obscure his image.
Is it three years?

I have not moved.
A spiders web, silken threads,
suspended from the ceiling
reproaches.

The walls need paint.
How strange.
We had decorated
only yesterday.
Or so it seems.

I scrabble among the rubbish
under the sink,
find a can of Mr Sheen
and a duster,
bright yellow, pristine

It seems, he shadows me
As I clean.
But I know,
finally, he is gone.

Then he whispers,
That’s it, my love
Move on’
I blow a kiss across the room
And whisper back
‘It’s much too soon’