I never knew my mother
as a photographer
until I found her student
darkroom
asbestos roof and windowless –
her very own Developing House
just beyond the coal
bunker in grandmother’s garden.
Hidden by the thick midge
hedge and twining
bines of honeysuckle
one summer afternoon
I sideslid the rustcrusted
bolt and felt the pelt
of an arachnid welcome.
Shattered bulbs crunched
on the concrete floor
must and pungence
of silver bromide
hung in air
from the rafters
with her Mamiya camera case.
Clotheslines of pegged
prints stretched from wall to wall
drying for years
above four trays
in which each latent image
was once transformed
to visible
made permanent
rendered insensitive to light.