The snapshots remain:
In one, the sky above a train station
Is a blue that aches, so perfect
so nothing but itself
Years fade the photograph;
The real sky, meanwhile,
Dark to light to dark each day, clouded
Or star-filled or sometimes, perhaps,
Even the same startling blue…
The wood of the train station
Older, benches inside more worn
—as we are—
Tracks that lead, that will always lead,
Across the river and home again.
Lola Lucas
