I arrived late. <br />Of course she did not mind, <br />it was never her way, <br />and always mine to superimpose <br />on reality, my own expectations. <br />But then she always exceeded them. <br />Even just after her birth <br />she exceeded expectations <br />for crying through the night. <br /> <br />A Sepia welcome; <br />no colourful fuss, just quiet warmth. <br />How strange, as we walked the less trodden streets <br />of Oxford that she chooses shady roads <br />lined with ancient light brown stone. <br />The only colour the painted yellow lines <br />telling the cars, that were not there, <br />they must not stop. <br />How typical that I might think that strange. <br /> <br />No longer a child, a woman now, <br />she shows me where she works, <br />her name outside the door. <br />We print off a discount voucher <br />for her preferred restaurant <br />and continue our walk. <br />We talk Sepia with a tinge of blue <br />when they announce they are out of onion rings. <br /> <br />She graduated three years ago, <br />graduated in self sufficiency too, <br />she tells me of her plans for an MSc. <br />Not frothy like a waterfall <br />or flat like last week’s open bottle of diet coke, <br />just smooth and flowing <br />with the confidence of a river <br />that knows it will find the sea. <br /> <br />We walk back, no plans, <br />unsure of the route, <br />but she knows every street and alleyway. <br />Did I know that Oxford has the most <br />amazing book store? <br />Bright eyes flash rays of light <br />like white arrows in the road. <br /> <br />She leads me to the poetry corner <br />and we sleuth out the book <br />I have been trying to find <br />for the last year, even though <br />I’ve forgotten the author <br />and the name of the book. <br />But she knows the one I’m looking for, <br />a deep connection in a Sepia memory.<br /><br />David Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sepia-and-the-deep-sea/
