A gentle fading,
apparent under grey paint.
Beauty from passing times.
As lonely words woken
from a shoebox diary.
Lifted from lace dreams
by curious children.
Sepia ink, pressed petals
all tied with yellow ribbon.
Bedded in lilac tissue.
Bitter at the old decay
Sleeping years have wrought,
I stare… but you
will not resolve for me.
As old pain lessens
a new loss presents.
Fresh with a hurt that is
not immediately clear.
©️ Dai Fry 11th May 2020.