The Old Photo


The photo has been torn in half
and then clumsily repaired with some tape
that has now become brittle and yellow.
It’s hard to tell if the tear
was deliberate
although each half
shows a figure, the tear right down the middle
as if done in anger or hate
before being repaired
by an unknown hand
and then stored carefully away.

The colours are faded now
the sepia tired and worn
a relic from the past
with a story
no one can tell.


The photo is in sepia
the corners are curling
and it is battered
as if it has survived many moves
and been handled many times
passing from person to person,
cherished and loved as time has passed
and memory has begun to fade
identity from those who see it.

Now the figure is nothing more than that –
a curious relic from the past
a figure someone once knew
an image once cherished.
Now, it is passed over, from hand to hand
curious eyes look at it, marvel at the figure
without knowing who it is.


It’s hanging on the wall
a portrait from another time
a black and white photograph
of a girl staring candidly
at the camera
eyes deep, a fixed expression.
There are pearls around her neck
and her hands are clasped
as she stares at the camera
as if staring into the very soul
of the one who took it.

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