In the albums of my life
images
solid and fleeting;
the first holiday snapshots,
moments pickled in time,
preserved on shiny card,
rarely reviewed.
Another box holds couples:
some are me and he,
whoever the he was, in transience.
There’s a box for disappointments.
Ah, wait, it’s the same as the second
with a few thrown in
for the paths not followed.
Then there are those for children,
or the lack of children.

Polly Stretton © 2019