Photographs At Youth
I never understood why it was
That unuttered words could have brought
About such confusion, like a stout summer
Gearing into a famished winter, dislodging dreams.
And after departures whatever was wrong
Was hidden until realisation brought about
These words as I connect with photographs
Of us at youth, content and absolute.
Such stilled moments still pleasure,
Are biographies that hold no danger,
Just the gorgeous image of affection
Loud in admiration I thought would be
Pure and proud as a new human. And endless.
Now only one image is left, I, here,
Searching for some kind of tale
That would make sense - a fond
Essence, a gracious soul vibrant
As the photographs that slip through my fingers,
My face the colour of unorthodox Polaroids,
The steady tick of heartbeats remembered
Until everything stops and the remnants
Of memory twist and fold like something
Too hard to forget until another life folds,
Like mine, far away, inconsequential
As God sitting in silence, dismissed as a certain
History litters the floor, whilst out in the light somewhere
Dissatisfaction colours in another day.
If you've any comments about this
poem, John Cornwall
would be pleased to hear from you.