Photographs at seventy

In an old Photograph
Looking out at me
From the stiff line of children
I see the boy I was.
He plays in the streets
Of my childhood
And sits at my desk
Swinging my boots
And carving my name,
With a precious penknife.

Down the years
He runs freely
In the alleys of my mind
As though he lived there.
If I bumped into him
In the corridor
Of some demolished house
Would he recognise me
And reach up to kiss me?