The Photograph

A dusty junk store book, picked up
by chance to pass an idle hour.
I found you hidden, pressed between
its pages like a faded flower

that once declared a passion true.
Edwardian, I guess, your childhood
scarce behind and yet you sit
with quiet grace, your sepia smile

demure but wilful eyes proclaiming
joy of your first love affair.
Did you select your finest silk
and lace, choose jewellery with care

before you faced the lens and let
that speck of time be saved: a prize
for some young beau; a parting gift
to keep you close ’neath distant skies?

Upon what road did destiny
direct your steps? You left no name,
no clue to help me find the girl
you were, the woman you became.

Perhaps that’s best. The rest of us
grow worldly-wise but you, forever,
will remain unmarred, your maiden
dreams alive; your love will never

fade nor sorrow score the sweet
perfection of a face which shares
with me its hopes of future bliss
and banishes my petty cares.
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