About Face It is as if you have prescribed a soldiers ‘about face’ and a march into the distance Yet there you are somehow still in front of me a face I can see worn by all other faces your smile sitting for a split second on the lips of another then vanishing as my own lips part the chestnut brown of your eyes stolen by a colleague or a shop assistant the autumn in a park I sense your voice within the talk of others so that I strain to hear it whilst shutting them out and your finger sits on my lip holding you in I can sense you at my shoulder forgiving and smiling but more out of pity than love and every day you become more real the further you slip away © David Finchett 2007