In the mind, there’s a photo-album
stamped on the cover, My Photos?
with a question-mark –
the stranger’s profile, immortalised
as they waited at the crossing lights;
the face crumpled with laughter
at the joke you missed, as
you boarded the bus;
the first glimpse of a future lover’s
stance, expression meaningless:
strangely unattractive,
insignificant yet remembered;
whose photographs are these?
it’s as if some other mind
borrowed your camera without your consent,
to leave taunting hints of timelessness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem, Michael. I like this one a lot. I have so many of such photos in my mind and absolutely no idea why they were retained. A 10 plus. Thanks Richard