Surveillance photographs are all I have:
Her red hair blazing, pixellated light,
A corner shop display of melon halves,
A blur of denim – then the screen goes white.

Now overhead, the drones trace lacy arcs,
Each empty park keeps pliant my belief.
CCTV screens flicker in the dark,
Each glistening cube frames loss in sharp relief.

I stalk the streets with Rolleiflex in hand,
And photograph the press of foot on grass.
I stroke the arch imprinted in the sand:
So swift small steps from life to limbo pass.

Uncertain sunlight pins these scenes of loss,
Where shadows hold our disappeared in gloss.