A niece of mine wrote the narrative poem (below) to accompany this photo ... she is a fine talent!
I bring the photo forward from my photostream in her honour. We are contemplating a book of her poetry to accompany some of my photographs - perhaps it will happen, perhaps it will not. I will share your comments with her. Cheers!
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'In Search of Lost Time'
A few stores along that side of the street
Sit empty and forgotten
Like the occasional refuse carelessly tossed
On cobbled streets.
Old windows reflect the busyness
And hum of street noise.
The old man paused at 37B during his morning shuffle
Peering through the dirty glass,
Hunched slightly forward,
Hands tightly clasped behind him in
Some personal pathos.
He waited until she took form again,
Her small oval face partly obscured
By time and rebellious curls,
Her flashing dark eyes, captivation.
Why had he never dared to draw up his breath,
March into the tinker’s shop and ask
Her to tea!
Had she ever known he was there?
There was such promise!
But the war.
Carried her away like it did his youth
That ebbed away on the front lines.
He returned like so many did,
A shell.
He forgot to demand of life
What it could still proffer,
Trying to forget
The roar, clamour and blood
And the last sighs of fallen friends.
He didn’t look for her again
Until the loneliness
Outweighed the din of past battles
And there,
He found her again
Past the reflections
Of old glass and shadows.
©CHill
2021
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The photo was first posted in 2016 with the following text.
“L’influence anesthésiante de l’habitude ayant cessé, je me mettais à penser, à sentir, choses si tristes." (Marcel Proust: 'In Search of Lost Time')
We have had a major bout of freezing rain during the night, about 5mm of photogenic - but very dangerous - ice on everything ... cross your fingers for us that our power lines don't come down. Trees and branches are crashing all about as I write this ... the price of having such warm unseasonable weather I suppose?
- Loures, Portugal -
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