From an old photograph
of my mother and grandmother,
I see the look of my daughter.
the two women smile,
arms delicately linked –
one the same age as the century,
the other turning twenty.
In the darkened window,
in the neatly falling lace curtain,
between sunburst and cloud cover,
whosoever took the photograph
is just about discernible -
my soon-to-be-father father,
in his new postwar life or,
more likely, the man-to-be my uncle –
goofy-toothed, sleeves rolled up,
skinny as a rake, making faces
at this little family before
they all go back in again,
through the dim hallway,
by the monk’s bench,
good chairs and grand sideboard
of a painted scene.
Credit: Gerald Dawe
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