Watching from the past

Sepia and faded the past is watching me,
eyes following my moves. The old portrait
tells me in every angle of the room
that I am not alone here as I dust.
Her eyes beg me to stay. I must.

How did she do that hair, I wonder, did she
shape it every morning in that way
or just on special days, like
when they had the photo made?
What was her life about? But she can’t say.

For minutes she and I connect,
and for a moment I am her:
a woman anxious for the lens
as it may take her soul away.
I feel the blame – did I disturb her grief?

I smile and now her lips seem curved.
I leave the room to go on with my day
but she stays in my mind, ancestor with my name.


Comments on: "Watching from the past" (6)

  1. A lovely poem Ina, taking an item like this which we often just walk past or get on with things without thinking much about it, and giving it life. And it is strange how certain photos and paintings have eyes that appear to follow us wherever we go I i remember a painting of Christ in the Sunday School room of our church. I think it was supposed to be a gentle Jesus type picture but it terrified me the way his eyes watched every move I made!! Creepy! Lol L&H xx

    • Thank you very much Christine. Yes, those photo’s seem to follow you around! I had a photo that I moved to another room just because of the stare πŸ™‚ L&H xxx

  2. I really like this Ina, it seems to me simply and beautifully done. Nice and spooky, too!

    • Hi Cynthia, thank you very much. It is a bit spooky perhaps πŸ™‚ But as long they don’t actually start to speak, it is fine with me. Or I move them to another room πŸ™‚

  3. OH WOW, Ina!!

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