Anne. (Revised Version).

                       1

Anne,
These photographs do you no justice,
They are the evidence for the prosecution
With no defence allowed.
A scribble of black and white lies
Disrupting a blank surface.
They mock you with their lack of colour,
Lack of life.
They are the smoke that rises out of dry ice;
Ashes cold and brittle.

                       2

There is no sense of you permitted.
No tangible presence. No true Anne
Revealed, printed on this yellowing paper
Designed to fade, to fall apart, become dust.
One Album hoarding a lifetime in snapshots,
Each image besmirched with a layer of gloss
Now split and cracked like a shattered window.

                        3

Your truth is not locked in this Photograph Album,
Entombed in implacable black and white.
Not the dance of your eyes; not your voice;
Not the raw young fire of your body;
That catastrophe known as your mind.
These photographs fabricate uncertain epitaphs,
Simplistic memos chalked on a slate.

                         4

Your kisses tasted of Gauloises,
And sometimes of whiskey and gin.
Your laugh leaped out of the darkness
Scorching the East London night.
Your fingers danced in my open hand
Like a troupe of feral Gypsies.
You teased me with your poetry,
Cracking down on my conventional dreams.

                         5

Anne,        You fracked the mould;
Hijacked my heart;
Kick started my gung - ho high life;
Showed me the ways of the world.

These prints do not compliment memory,
They can only make certain      my grief.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
5th. - 6th. - 13th. - 14th.- 31st.  August 2013.
(Dedicated to A S, my long lost friend).