Snapshot

The bosomy woman in her floral frock and shiny shoes 

dandles her grand-daughter for somebody’s camera.

The baby, swathed head-to-toe in hand-knitted white wool,

looks astonished to be perched on the lush curly back

of a golden retriever. The dog stares sphinx-like and, behind, 

the long lawn unrolls its stripes in the sun, like bolts of silk.

Now, that land’s awash with feathery grass, the dog’s grave’s 

long-lost, along with its name and that of its owner. The woman 

writing this, with untidy hair and bare feet, has no one now

to record her life free from ties of children, dogs and gardens—

and, wondering where such formal beauty went, finds sweet 

disorder in hours sat in a kitchen alone, toying with words—

until there’s a moment held firm in the afternoon light, 

when she’s surprised to find that the posing’s come right.