The Photograph

The photograph, a still imprint, a memory captured,

Hung on the empty east-end wall.

A recollection it triggers, it anchors to,

her eyes, before the fall.

It hangs there forever.....forever to be true,

A possession so priced, I cannot afford to lose.

Yet, it lies there down trodden,

as the seasons come and go,

But the memory it provides,

haunt me no more.

I know I am afraid of change,

Afraid, of the final fall.

Afraid of the photograph,

upon the east-end wall.