Snapshot - new draft

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 being in the midst
neither of 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
and now, at last, she packs
up everything she was into the tallest glass.