and you’re insisting we stop
at this scorched roadside
for photographs. One day
they’ll make good
an intermittent memory,
a slight note of disbelief
in seeing again ragged petals,
pincushion faces and yours,
expectant, with comical squint.
So far into summer,
a landscape flooded yellow,
we’re going over ground
from before you were born.
Knuckled flint patches
unturned earth and looking out
through the viewfinder’s chink
I might be puzzling at how
our beginnings connect
to this resurrected field.
The sunflowers nod their heads.
