He, photographed,
Looks out at me
In the quiet of this grand old Bradford gallery.

A proud, neat man
In white shirt with fastened cuffs
And knitted short-sleeved pullover.
Shining clean like a child
Fresh out of hot winter bath.

He's posing again with that old map,
Unfolded yet one more time for the occasion.
Creased and lined like his ancient, weathered face.

As the caption relates,
These are the deeds of the land
On which he lived and worked.
His land.
In Poland.
Before the war.

He lives in Lincoln now.
Sixty years and many miles
From the chaos and cruelty
Of capture and concentration camp.

His sharp eyes give hint
Of the ironic humour
Contained in this post-war post-script:
Political manoeuvrings
Have led to new borders being cast
Around his little patch of land
So that now
It resides in Lithuania.