In the solitude of the cupboard

He develops the photographs one by one,

Dipping them into the tray,

Hanging them on an old clothesline.

Colours emerge, pulsing with life;

He takes his time with it,

Carefully adjusting to a slower rhythm.

He is dedicated and patient,

For great art demands a great approach.

He is proud of the image revealing itself

On that tiny scrap of his world:

He has immortalised the greatest painter of the era

And the woman, his shadow, following close behind:

In a field of lavender, riding a bicycle through the village,

Climbing a hill with an unseen Algerian soldier.

Her long, chestnut, curly hair

Cut short and cast to the wind,

Freckles on her shoulders and dimples in her cheeks –

All of this holds secret tidings from distant lands.

Now they are gone,

Love buried in countless letters

That, like trees, torment a broken heart.

He knows this, so he does not rush,

Skilfully bringing the images into the light,

Revealing the world’s finest face –

The only face that will endure,

Standing as a testament to that generation

After the war, when everything seemed to have come to a standstill.

It will dispel the darkness, fighting in its own way –

The only way to be worthy of it.