POETRY N

MARYAM ALSAEID

On noticing the golden flecks in the photo

It must have dusted or discoloured. There are little prints of gold, like a chipped masterpiece. My father is dashing.

My mother, just about to migrate-obedient, crepe white scarf, folded with politeness. She is the only one truly staring into the lens.

My sister is looking up, dressed in a delicate tulip pink dress, white rimmed. Precious as the gold chipping.

As for the little one with curls, he will one day free the little bulbul birds caged for years and here he sits, sliding like a melon on my mothers lap.

My Jidu is a gladiator- tanned, sandals bearing the weight of a glorious man. Note, he is not looking at just one of them, but all.

I named him Angel On The Right, for some time. Writing good deeds for us.

The sun is being swept across the sky at the time. They will yearn for that for the rest of their lives.

Soon they will settle into a land of green and grey. Soon they will be terrible at loving.

The hose pipe lies languorous on the patio floor, like it has been dropped for this one moment.

Jidu is mesmerised. His four golden gifts. The desolate haunts of his own nature and ours.