Their Wives-To-Be (Poetry)

It was a photograph my father took —
more than a mere snap
                                it seemed more posed than that —
taken to record a rare day out
one now long-ago late forties summer with
the war already fading to a memory
but for rationing still on. Three couples in good
company and courting strong. All in their twenties
and ahead of them the whole length of
their soon-to-be-wedded lives. That image
marked a turning point.

The location’s unrecorded. Some random field in southern England
chosen for that picnic. The rug spread out across a bank of meadow
grass. And the girls (for girls they were in youthful essence)
quite casual how they looked half-lying on the tartan square.
Plump knees showing. Unconcerned with staid propriety.
My future mother, two would-be aunts — all primed with
                                                                smiles
turned flirty for the camera. Giggles almost caught
along with catchlights in their saucy eyes.

Both my father’s brothers sitting up and slightly awkward —
grinning sheepish in their shirtsleeves, sporting regulation braces.
Not too long demobbed and still stiff-backed from habit
less at ease but gladness read in their expressions
to be alive that day — and in that homeland field together
with their wives-to-be.

The moment saved in black and white for me
to wonder at.