An aged image casts a lure
as my gaze meets
once sighted eyes
What reflections might be heard
if these long silent lips could
In fading prints
I look upon them still:
Victorian and Edwardian days.
Quite close to ours
When browsing books of photographs
collecting vintage scenes
where bustling city streets show
people stressed or hurried
chasing after needs which
seemed so vital then
but did not leave a trace.
Like those faces briefly
Around some corner
through old doorways…
They’ve all gone
Fared forth on
I was struck by how, from mid 20th century, viewers may know everyone seen in specific dated photographs could not possibly be alive.
Examining such reproductions of reality populated exclusively by the dead, is a fairly recent human experience. Just a few generations old.
(Portraits used above are the only ones to survive from my grandparent’s youth:
Kathleen Regan (1896-1984) at first communion (1904).
Charles Webber (1900-1971) in uniform (1918).
And with his son (my uncle): Raymond Webber (1923-2017).
I honour and miss them all.)
While time remaining wanes
I live alone in lostness
as my failure to find love has left
the chain of family
( Comments especially welcome!
Opening the heart feels lonelier met by silence.
Thank you for reading.)
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