When, by chance, I picked up the photograph,
I thought I had picked up a portrait of you
Laughing by the seaside, but private, as you
always are,
Flowers in your hair band, a Russian novel
balanced on one knee.
The tent was quite familiar - quite your style -
An old Welsh blanket hoisted on four sticks -
Hoisted loosely between the breast shaped
sand dunes
To make a snug, a private little squat
To be secreted in.
I really thought this portrait was of you,
The ink black birthmark printed on the cheekbone;
Fine blue eyes under lacquered lashes;
Gilded hair cascading over shoulders;
A platinum wedding ring.
Every detail brought you clearly to my mind,
The scent of you, the touch of you; your young
half naked body
Curled up on the settee next to mine.
But then I noticed the photo had been tinted,
The dye applied with great care by an artist
Expert in the craft;
An artist who plied this craft from time to
time
To put a few half crowns in empty jam jars. -
I slide the picture back where I had found it,
Lodged between two novels,
Two pre-war novels, left out, I hope by chance,
Among discarded beer cans and pizza packs,
Left out to rot upon the churchyard wall. -
You say I was meant to find this pile of books,
But I dispute this; I had not passed the church
for several weeks,
And I rarely stop to pick through unloved things,
Not even hardback books once sold in Woolworth
To young ladies of my mother`s generation.
But I am glad I found this photo, although I dare
not keep it;
I do not own her past, so I must let her go.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 23rd. - 26th. - September 24th. 2020.
December 12th. 2020. - October 9th. 2022.
