Photographer at 55

He lived in a forest
in a wooden house
One that smelled of Birch
and tobacco
cherry pipe

The woods had wolves
and he lived alone
Beyond the hills
shady gloom
memories lived
like money in
some bank account

No
It was really a studio
I mean
If you walk down the living room
you'd brush against
curtains green
chequered.

then at the door
a jump cut
to blackness
and
red light
and Ilford
100 ISOs

Yesterday after a
moderate storm
when the wind tracked down the
walls
and the candle flickered

The black telephone
beside the
large photograph
He wished for
the other side
the 30 yrs ago
where a smile was waiting
to say
I'm proud of you
artiste my love

he knew he was quite
a dilettante though

next came rain
and the candle died

and late that night
when the wolves were hunting
he dream't of
Saraghina