Hiraeth Poem by Andrew David Hunt

The old photograph, like a tomb, rests at my feet;
Its gloss membrane has sprouted and is ruptured.
Leaving its once steeped colours, now to ebb
Then stream into bleach and begin to dissolve.
Yet… it’s very presence creates a sense of slide
And in turn like autumn leaves a distorted value of the past.
The image has me constantly wondering,
Aching at these shuttered stunted memories
Of a home that never really was,
And people who never really were.
And a growing sense of loss
That then flowers to a bloom that becomes an ache,
Which, is hard to fully comprehend.
© adh 2013