Portrait of Anna, at Sigmund's Side 

The London breeze curls his smoke towards her
with the scent she'd catch when he'd been away
and she returned home from lessons
like the children playing at poses,
daring each other to step in front of the lens.

Inside she sighs at the photographer,
his preparations drawn out like shadows.
His tripod, his cloak, his nodding assistant.
The way he inches closer until the brambles on the wall behind
could be anywhere, could be Vienna.

In exile there is all the time in the world;
it is measured in Sigmund's cigars, his bottles of wine,
his doses of morphine.
There is no urgency for her to clear away the still life
of empty water jugs, dry bread, unbroken eggs.

The children are bored. The flash-bulb flares.
Sigmund's gaze burns through the lens to where his legacy is taking shape
in the dark rooms behind future eyes.
Anna looks far away, to where her life is happening now,
somewhere deep beyond the borders of the frame.

By David Keyworth