The Photograph

It lies on the table before me
The pre-match photograph
In black and white, almost sepia
Faded, the glaze broken, the paper
Curling sleepily at the corners

I run my fingers over the surface
Feeling the jerseys, the long shorts
The sad socks, the serious grins
Slowly, cautiously, respectfully
I touch my father's face

The group shifts impatiently
Keen to get on with the game
Come on Jack, my father cries
Just one more, one for posterity
His words wafting to the winds

Fifty years later, I understand him
Perhaps better than ever before
His camaraderie, his sense of humour
His love of the game, his gentle smile
His voice across the valley of time

By Declan Whitney