I was waiting outside my local 24hr
Photoprint Services,
all unsuspecting of the fate
shuffling towards me
on the mini-lab auto-printer.
I was flicking through the usual haul
of barely recognisable
‘Memories in Colour’,
when I found myself face to face
with something altogether
nearer the truth
and a wave of inexpressible
sadness, or gladness, swept over me.
I realised too late
I was drifting helplessly on the sea
of post-war British photograph poetry.
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