sonsbeek, stereo photography
Layer after layer of vitrified time,
misted dim with distance so that I’m
surmising more than I see: your foot must be there,
hiding behind the plants by the path, your hair
blending with golden threads of autumn. But where
’s the angle from which this can be read for sure?
In photos still tantalisingly unclear:
On the Bridge of Swans. The Belvedere.
Assembled places, from Lorentz to the Great
Falls. But all the images retreat
in double illegibility. Here, between
all this sepia, there’s no life to be seen.
Maybe I need to change the way I gaze.
If I stare without expectation, it clicks into place.
Depth. Pin-sharp – the fathomless park.
Feet chastely together, you stand beside
the Pavilion. Six silver buttons shine
on your winter coat. A serious little face
beneath your fur hat. Your hands at your back.
Excursion, almost eighty years before.
I see the child who in her already bore
what she couldn’t imagine: the big girl
the young woman, the bride, the mother, all
she would be. So enlarged it takes my breath
away, I see the smile coming which you’ll
not have again till seconds before your death.