Pickford’s Wharf, 1992

For once, I’ve written on the reverse where and when
the photographs were taken, the biro showing through

on your lapel and down my cheek. It’s about a year
since we met, we’re there in black and white, smartly attired

after the wedding of friends east along the river, now launched
into their life together while you show me where your career

will begin, same suit, the railway bridge behind you, the strand
against the shine of water, tide out, your wavy hairline

barely in retreat. And I’m pellucid eyed into the distance,
the corners of my lips lifting. I might be sighing with sudden

wonder at no longer being alone, standing by the railings,
watching something float away from me painlessly.