Photographs

it was the Sunday before you left

I remember the breakfast

then the walk.

The floral gardens are so lovely

in the early summer.

Focused perfectly

you framed in roses

within the arch

of the climbing rose arbor.

My camera clicked once.

Somewhere a windchime

was lilting.

Looking now

at the last photograph

I would take of you.

They say the  camera

tells no lies.

Your ashen loveless face

Was saying the goodbye

I heard this morning.