Relocation

The painting of you used to hang
in a shadow, the black as soft

as the brushstrokes on your
face. Despite this the colours

of the ball in your hands shone
through, echoing about the room;

your creased severity was undermined
by that sweet six-year smile.

The painting now hangs in my
parents' house, on new walls

of white; that impish smile peeking
in on a home you never knew.