GOLDEN HOUR
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They look so sharp, the four brothers. You could cut your finger
on the folds of those cuffs.
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Four boys, can you imagine that? Adored by their mother, what a stern father,
at least that’s what I’ve been led to believe.
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This is not a smiling photograph, only one of them – the youngest
– looks at the camera. They are out of time. This is the 1970s.
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They look like extras from an early Hitchcock film. Look at his
hands, the artist, such long fingers. He is holding the baby, this photo
.
is a memento from a christening day. And what became of them?
Does it matter? There were failings, shall I list them? Shadows that fell,
.
resentments that bruised, solemn men with long faces seen
through the eyes of a child.
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Talk instead about the cellar jars of pickled plums
the rambling garden pathways for hiding gnarled trees for climbing
.
a swinging rope over an empty dam hush of thick carpet
polished silver gleaming the creak and bang of the wire screen door.
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In fact let’s not speak at all, just look at the photograph.
Four brothers on a couch slicked hair and jaunty limbs.
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Is it the time of day, the old Kodak print or my imagination –
what do you think, doesn’t the light look golden?
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