PHOTOGRAPHS

What happened to that photograph of you and I -
you remember, the one of our final holiday together
in 2009?
Searching countless albums to find it...aha!

When Austin framed us,
I wonder if he possibly could have guessed
that it would stir such emotions in me
this far into his future.
I recall how meticulously
he positioned us against the backdrop
of rocks and wild plants, calculating
angles of light and shade
in conjunction with our images.
How many minutes did it take
to perfect it?
Sunshine. Wind, wind,
cold sea spray laden wind
murmuring over jagged rocks.
Territorial conflict
of seagulls and invading ravens.
We retreated, frozen, luminous, gazing at him
through a retina of metal and glass.
He lifted us out of the physical
and into a vortex of coloured inks - to become
an indelible copy of what he saw
that October afternoon, high up in a recess
in the cliff face overlooking Rocky Valley.

A sudden thought: what became
of that grey sweater you're wearing?
Out of the gloomy depths of a sensitive's awareness
sentimentality bubbles up - a spectre that brings
unease, combined with intense longing to revisit
that earlier time...and touch again that warm fluffiness
that must still exist somewhere, although
now grown cold - or else is warming some other body
that was never a part of mine.

And I can't let it go. Have to know where
it is now. Is it being cared for with lashings
of fabric conditioner after every wash?
A disturbing vision of it lying discarded, screwed up
and torn, buried in a landfill site.
It is alone there. Once so close to you
and still carrying your essence, it languishes
in this inaccessible sepulchre...
and I can't bear it.
Panic.
Is it at this very moment being consumed
by moths, worms, or some deadly petrochemical
dumped on top of it?

Stop thinking!
Nostalgic imaginings can be destroyers of sanity.

But I'm drawn even deeper...
our bags on the rocky ledge behind you.
I have mine still, but yours is long gone.
All that black life, harbouring your memories -
your emotions and aspirations recorded
forever in it's fabric. I remember you donated it
to a charity shop: in the hands of a psychometrist
your innermost secrets could be unlocked -
and all for a few mere pounds.
I am possessive by proxy, can't begin to contemplate the notion
of a total stranger owning our shared past.

Oh I wish I could share these feelings with you.
But just two days ago I found other photographs like these
torn up in the bottom of your bin. As I retrieved them
and began piecing them together like a jigsaw
of your life, I discovered fragile finger prints faintly
patterning the glossy surfaces.
Tears began to well up then.
It seemed so symbolic:
our mother/son bond ripped apart by adulthood's
cool independence...and I am in mourning...still clinging tightly
to these lifeless, yet immortal, doppelgangers...