On the dresser in the parlour there is a photograph

and you, you are standing at the back of the garden

in the background standing tall are the trees

to this day, I still cannot read the expression on your face

I guess you could say that it does not matter

and that’s alright for you

except it does matter that I cannot see your

face, except in profile and obscured by shadow in the photograph

the grass at your feet – bare – the foreground strewn with matter

and debris from where you were trimming the hedges in the garden

the colour appears to have drained from what little I can see of your face

a shape that maybe you have seen in the trees

that is troubling you unbeknownst to me, I cannot see what is in the trees

but I fear it is only something that you 

can tell me. I remember thinking that your face

was always the same in photographs

it broke my heart to think that it was the last photo of you in the garden

it was even worse when they said it only mattered

to me that the other box containing the photos ended up matted 

and soggy in the corner of the basement after the tree

fell into the pond and flooded the garden. 

There are many more photos of me that you 

took on that first sunny day in June, photographs 

of me lying in the hammock, my face

upturned enjoying the sun’s warmth on my face

on the ground next to me the dog is lying on a mat

as you advance towards me to take the photo

the hammock is hanging from the same tall trees

and perhaps I don’t mind that you

are coming towards me unannounced in the garden

I’m rarely alone with my thoughts anymore, apart from when I’m gardening

to my mind I think that my face

has gotten more interesting and I almost never think of you 

at all, it’s almost like none of it ever mattered

ever since the fallen tree

the picture frame has a new photograph

there’s a photo of a baby, asleep in the garden

the trees are in the foreground, a parasol shades his face

he’s lying on a mat and he looks, he looks nothing like you