Camera
Camera
Once I found a camera, swept up
on a beach. I picked seaweed off
it like strands of hair, unwashed.
A crab’s claw, no body of note,
clasped the shutter as if protector,
a titan from the deep: the memories
caught within secret. The screen flittered and
buzzed, popped into life and suddenly
I was married - a wife, brown skinned, plaits down to shoulder,
and had children - twins, sobbing eyes clenched against a flash.
I’d painted a nursery - cot, blinds, seahorse mural,
and cooked Christmas lunch – steam frozen above a turkey, crackers caught in a silent bang.
Before the light fizzled and faded, before that life dimmed,
I’d swum with dolphins too,
held a sunset, liquid orange balancing, inside a palm;
even snapped the inside of a backpack, contents blurred.
The screen dissolved. I returned it to the sea,
but not before adding one empty click of me.
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