She had been careful
not to allow polish
seep through the cracked glass.
A young man;
difficult to judge his age
through the blur of camera shake.
A moment of laughter,
taken from the hip with a box-brownie.
Out of place amongst studio poses
of aunts, uncles
and The Reverend J Lewis.
I, unaware of her thoughts,
sip tea from a china cup.
I had known her all my life
but never knew who he was.
She handed me the photo,
asked if it could be repaired.
Under the disapproving eyes
of Reverend Lewis,
we talked about Daniel,
a son who played with fire
and was burnt.

Rowland Hughes ©