So many pictures: small
black and white or sepia,
fastened to the heavy black pages.
The pretty young woman
in the patterned wool swimming costume
lounging against the stone seawall was my mother.
Eighty-two years ago
she could smell the salt
hear the breeze in the tall grass;
now each blade of grass
is as distinct as her dark nail lacquer
her dark curved lips.
The hue of the grass or the lacquer
or her lost dark lips
is a secret
as impenetrable as the identities
of many of her friends
in the other pictures.
Why they had gathered that day
worn those elegant clothes
posed so jauntily
so comfortably
is lost.
Where are the stories, Mother?
A marble slab above your head
is as final as the silence
of these pictures
telling a story I can never hear.

(Visited 30 times, 1 visits today)
FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
This entry was posted in aging, NaPoWriMo, photos, Poetry, thoughts below ground and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *