Snapshot

With the flowers in full bloom -

eyes smarting from pollen fogging the room -

she wills the day over. For days

she’s seen tomorrow as a stand-alone,

no more that deep-breathing stranger on the phone.

Clear lines, clean minds; she stays

alert to the face at the window very soon.

It feels wrong to be in the midst

of neither the anticipation nor the blitz

relief will bring when tomorrow arrives.

She’s been everywhere but standing still.

Memories and projections make her ill -

bad thoughts, stock still; she writhes

but can’t break free of the way time just sits.

There’s no control in a photograph:

no sounds, no hot and cold, no way to craft

one moment seamlessly into the next.

She’s dreamed in film all her life,

knows the subtlety of shade from mum to wife

but now, at once, she packs

up all she knew, leans back in the chair at last.