Sunday, 13 June 2010

Sunday Night is...Aretha Franklin

Don't Play That Song For Me

A Photograph in Old Age

So light entered the camera if only for
a fraction of a second which was enough
time for a draught to slip through the door

or a feather to rise in the faint puff
of wind, or the pupils of her eyes to dilate
and the conceiving of one off-the-cuff

remark about time. Even so she could wait
for time to pass, whole years of it, and slow
the moment down to no particular date,

she, being ninety, and smiling, in a flow
of moments, far too many to note or count,
like watching a feather, or hearing the wind blow

without any desire to keep track of the amount.


dana said...


much better re. type colors

and I remember asking my grandmother, after 80 and her husband's death, if time continues to move more and more quickly as one ages, and she said yes.

Nicole S said...

Very readable, even the links, and the poem is lovely.