A box full of photographs became a monument to histories held but somehow holding me, prisoner to epitaphs, face to face with ransome charges levied for the emptied floors, left to honour all before that is and also, now,
no more
emptiness a vase abhors
now is love and love no more,
at once and still again,
and now is love again
as deep as equal pain,
now and now again.
Cherry Coombe 