Paper; Silver; Golden

Gerard Rochford


In love he smutched the snow,
where she pressed footprints
crystal sharp.

He saw her face as sunlit winter,
warmth like theatre painted on
with Acts of other seasons.

Now he's vacant on a bench
watched by pigeons;
delays the worn walk home.

She listens for the gate, the door,
the calling out to her;
they play at man and wife.

This drama runs and runs,
the chill sun dims;
no one shouts for more.


Together on a bench,
sun warmed,
they break bread,

feed pigeons;
chatter familiar words,
sense when to move on.

He walks ahead,
buys tea and cake;
watches her arrive.

She takes a letter
from her handbag,
reads aloud.

They look at photos;
she touches his hand,
they leave,

casting one shadow
in a dance of darkness,
from the light they share.

This will rise and set,
in colour,
with the sun.