Not black but grey: all monochrome, a scar
of livid streets and faces. Not sepia
in memory tinged by rose, but raw and rough
as present, here and now. In these, a life
seems washed not clean but dirty, and all filters
cannot remove the greyness from these pictures.
These are the things you see in every shot.
And everything within your troubled sight
seems to become more distant with each moment.
This is the way those movies end in cinemas
on faded old projector screens, the last
frame giving way to whiteness, then the dark.
The colours are still there to rediscover.
So roll the film: remaster them together.
This poem © Oliver Tearle 2022