John Lynch
Sunday Walk
In this photograph
you have a look
I often find in the papers.
You know, a war zone somewhere,
a body in the road, smoke, flags,
people crowding; a backdrop for
the child who has turned to the camera,
her face asking the big question.
But this is different, surely.
You’re standing on the river bank;
it’s one of those late autumn,
Sunday afternoon walks, stuffed
with roast potatoes and parsnips.
In the background, your mother,
then tall reeds, a red sky;
and here’s you: pale and big-eyed.
What is it? What is it?
Page(s) 35
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