A poem: ‘Down where the wind is made’

You lay there, Earth holding you, looking up into the tiny green dot, then clicked.

Your eyes in that first photo I saw revealed your kindness. Displayed your soul as though you were manning a market stall offering your rounded mounds of bread. Hand-made. Hand-moulded. Put back together when the dough got mangled, splayed. Toughened from too much kneading.

That rare rawness, I loved. Love.

Now, when you took my hand and led me down to the Bay, you pause. Snap our photo. Then we continue on, down where the wind is made, see across that sun-sparkled sea a tumbling of infinite possibilities. Smile. Your eyes less sad. Full of faith.