30

You seem seven. Brown blond thatches a child’s
rounded features, same hazel-green eyes
show no shadow, addiction or age,
just a rounded hope, unseeing of the future you
tortured. What prompted the gapsmile of
unquestioning innocence remains hidden
as you gaze at the life in waiting.

Thirty years have faded the child,
no fringe frames you now– only
narrow lines replay experience.
Yet those eyes, those now creased eyes
can never fail to retain the essence
that is you.

Three decades divide the captured smiles –
a child’s unseeing ignorance
becomes the Man. Dismissive, harder, dark hair
tangles about the narrow shoulders but
I still find you.
The Man who crafts my hours.
Wiping those decades I wonder
if that smiling boy clutching at his future,
knew of the Man he’d fall into.