the photographs of road signs charged by light,
footprints on the dashboard
or blurred trees stooped like men picking leaves.
Or the back of my head, the garden shed
or all the landscapes from summer days when
we turned the camera on ourselves
and photographed nothing but wind.
We send thanks
and message school friends, relatives
and people with new fame. We check in;
with five stars and the next best thing.
One day we left everything and I thought
of that transatlantic journey we’d yet to take;
our daughter’s wedding
or the degree ceremonies; births and death.
We celebrate memories
and film each move we make as somewhere
beneath an Oxfordshire church, Eric realigns himself
to a place thirty years away
where Frankie has run out of things to say.