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;

surround ourselves

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.

facebookmarsdenpoemsocial media1984George Orwell

◄ The Football

April Birthday ►


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