The Visa to England
A quirk of fate (or punishment),
And years of love were thrown away;
You left my arms, removed your ring,
And, I, the fool, begged you to stay.
My heartfelt words had no effect;
Your lover called and off you ran;
Bereft, I wept, alone, confused:
You’d said I’d always be your man.
I curse the cruelest fluke that meant
You broke your vows and broke my heart;
Perhaps it’s fate: our love was doomed;
Or Eros laughed and aimed a dart.
But as the bitter tears subside,
I nod my head: our love has died.
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.