The Photograph

In the photograph

Dad is younger. Hair still dark,

Alive,

and my mum sturdy.

Only at this moment do

I perceive

Her new frailty.

In the flush of Madeira green, they smile,

A levada hugging the mountain

at their backs.

My age, or thereabouts.

And time has washed me likewise

To this defiant rock

Battered by ocean.

In their faces, I see myself,

my sister, my brother;

Generations marching, before and behind.

Look – turn the camera!

And all of them,

All of them

Are etched upon mine.

Jan Stacey