The room is surprisingly dark,
an impression of high ceilings,
grandeur, gloom, a desk.
The diagonal slash of yellow
– incandescent gold –
is a young woman, dress
rich, radiating class.
She juts up into my frame,
her face, centre-screen, rivets
all attention, and she looks
she looks right at me. Stopped.
That look, a lion disturbed
at the kill. Le moment decisif.
Clearly she was writing, intent,
not merely another email, no,
a message of love – to whom?
She will not tell. Face-off.
Locked like stags in battle.
With one click I lock
her secret away forever.
My question a subcutaneous itch,
a nagging curse upon all
who confront my photograph.
Verses of Five 