The glistening shoal of photographs
are stranded across the bed,
jostling for position
in dusty morning sunlight.
Still treacherous, even now
with their vignettes of how
we wish things had been.
And I see you again
under a broken moon
skimming stones across
a white charged sea.
Or your hair feathering
as you sheltered from
a curtain of grey drizzle
in a dragon clouded sky.
And always time
washing at who we were.
So the past gathers
in the darkness
of this morning
and you grow clearer
and more defined
with each passing hour.
