I want to walk back into a picture,
capture a moment that is frozen,
a spring day, perhaps early summer,
I can't recall – was there a wind playing?
You were so big, or was I just small,
you're bending, in one hand your cap.
Cap and Papa, they are synonymous,
along with grape vines and an old, old hoe.
Was it a Tuesday or a Monday in May,
it could be June with you whistling a tune,
under your breath, an old time song,
it must have been morning, I'm sure it was.
Was it the year, of the cold hard frost?
Perhaps a draught, that baked the ground.
The noon siesta you spent in your chair,
was it clement that day, or later just rain.
I'd like to remember each nuance each slot,
an occasion, a moment, who took the shot?
I'd like to walk backward, just for a while,
I'd smile if I could, to just see you there.
The two of us captured, by an invisible hand.
The cap that you swept in all of your greetings,
the meeting of moments that melt on the tongue,
its long since your gone but you could still be here.
This picture an essence, slightly flavoured I fear
for a spore of a memory, that time has dwindled,
mingling months by the clothes that we wore,
a picture of you and the me I out grew.
Poetry by Elle
Read 147 times
Written on 2022-03-01 at 17:33
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