Woman Writing An Email

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.

poem by Five picture by Vermeer

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