My Mother’s Album, Pat Francis

My Mother’s Album

In her best frock, posed grinning
by an improbable plant; her grandmother
when studio portraits were a novelty.

Turn the page:  thin legs by the sea
caught by cameras that were now their own,
and a week at the seaside was a novelty.

At the back, the postcard collection;
sepia, soldiers singing about home –
‘There’s a long, long, trail awinding’.

No more pages.  No ‘land of my dreams’
as the song promised, but the slump and a war
that brought its own shattering novelties.



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Filed under New Poetry, Poetry

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