(an anonymous photograph)
Kos, it says, July ’98.
They’re sideways on a harbour wall
with the long last of the sun
trailing mauve on the inshore waters.
He’s in front, her right hand
on his shoulder. Her dress is long,
olive, puckered at the breast. Her sandals
are soles with a fuss of small buckles.
His trainers are black but he has
white socks also, as if the holiday
can’t have the sky full on its face
but must nod homeward –
to his gym-kit, perhaps, or
his chorister’s rig at the turn of Advent
in, as it might be, a country town
where the echoes of church are modest.
There is a family resemblance
in the red of their necks, daubed
before noon, maybe, left to ripen
in the placid soak of heat.
They are the only people in the world.
Whoever snapped them is long gone
through the shimmer of barks and doorways.
Perhaps she wonders what a husband
would still be like. Perhaps he imagines
the brother or sister gone from his life
before they arrived, getting exquisitely
up his nose, kicking along beside him.
Turn away a moment. Look back,
closer. Their necks are matching
amulets. Her hand at his shoulder
is squeezing the faintest touch more.
