She takes a picture of me, I of her,
we store them somewhere for some time and
after the day is done when the sun sets like blancmange in the bowl of the sky,
you and I retrieve what we believe are the prints of our youth and then you hand me the truth in a yellowing curled up photograph,
You have to laugh or don’t you agree?
We never were as far as I’m aware that young, were we?
but the question hangs and blows like a shirt on the line.
Time plays tricks
and this we know
fast or full,
we tried to slow it
always knew it wouldn’t be
time caught you
it’s catching me,
shall we agree to cast off from the shore.
run off from time
we don’t need it
© 2016, John Smallshaw.