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Poets and artists

Fire and Water

Nothing is ever lost, you say, quoting
from a book you’ve read. It’s a winter’s day,
you stir the fire. From nowhere you recall
a visit years ago – to Auschwitz.
It was all a bit nothing, you remark,
Except the photograph. A gypsy girl.
In their photos some looked brave. The girl was
frightened. She looked at me and cried.
As memory reconnected you, her tears
jumped the years from her to you, from you to me,
like we remembered, with sorrow and some guilt,
a child we might have had who died while we
looked on believing there was nothing we could do.
The moment passed. The fire settled in the grate.
Nothing is ever lost.