We made masks of each other. br Each lay still under the tender fingers br of the other, felt the plaster grip br the hairline, tighten on the greased skin, br felt the gentle hands mould and caress br until with a grimace we released the cast br and each held our own face in our hands. br br They lie drying side by side br on the June grass; br we recognise each other br but not ourselves br in these grave images. br br One day one of us will view the other br as still as this, as quiet, as white, br will cry tears of unbelieving pain, br demand the right to hold again br their living lover's face, ask br why that vibrant self has gone, br and all that's left's a pale and static mask.