There is a photograph I have that makes me smile,
Of my mother lying on my father’s chest,
Both bodies bronzed,
My mother’s white bikini, my father’s blue swimming trunks,
My parents' dark brown hair
And their smiles, spread as if for miles
In happiness and laughter
My mother’s left hand cupping my father’s cheek,
His fingertips caught tiptoeing over her shoulder, over her back,
Her head resting above his heart -
Perhaps she heard it,
Thumping and bashing with joy.
Perhaps.

In pure moments of perfection,
Do we hear what we will miss much later?
Perhaps.

Bodies curled and wrapped around one another,
Say this is forever
And then they lie still sleeping,
Not realising that precious moments pass them by,

Version Two:

There is a photograph I have that makes me smile,
Of my mother lying on my father’s chest,
Both bodies bronzed,
My mother’s white bikini, my father’s blue swimming trunks,
My parents' dark brown hair
The same, exactly the same colour.
I have never noticed this before.
And their smiles, spread as if for miles
In happiness and laughter
My mother’s left hand cupping my father’s cheek,
His fingertips caught tiptoeing over her shoulder, over her back,
Her head resting above his heart -
Perhaps she heard it,
Thumping and bashing with joy.
Perhaps.

In pure moments of perfection,
Do we hear what we will miss much later?
Perhaps.

In the corner of the photograph,
There is half of a leg that is crossed,
A body-less arm stretches out, the palm catching the knee.
I wonder who that person is.
If he is watching my parents,
Smiling at their joy,
Perhaps.
Only perhaps.

In pure moments of perfection,
Do we see what we will forget much later?

Bodies curled and wrapped around one another,
Say this is forever –
Or perhaps they do not say it,
Never said it.
Perhaps they were waiting. Waiting for more perfection.
Not realizing perfection ha just passed them by.