The canary yellow wall had a coal fire at its heart
A fire, that on this November the fourth morning
Like many November the fourth mornings
Had been lit good, and early
Such by the time that we arrived
It had a warm and welcoming glow
To the right of the fire
Not quite in the alcove sat Andrew; a man
Who knew a good deal about photography
He told me that the bright sunlight, which
Was falling onto the chimney breast
Would make it a difficult image to capture
He also told me that he had spent a large
Part of the last years of his wife’s life
‘Watching on’ instead of ‘joining in’ thanks
To his fascination with the camera
I took photo’s anyway, with Kate’s smartphone
A few shots, although I haven’t yet seen them
I doubt that I captured the honeycomb
Of golden fragments, that fell from the crystal
And scattered themselves in the hearth of the fire
Neither did I pick out the words inside the cards
That cluttered the mantelpiece, beneath
The painting of a younger woman
We listened to Paulo Nutini
We heard him many times, on that day
We talked about an underground ballroom
At the Harley Art Gallery, somewhere near Worksop
I told Andrew about an obituary, that I had read
In the morning’s Guardian newspaper
