I’ve got nearly seventeen hanging baskets

in the back of my mind

as I reach to find these

fragile artefacts.

Tracing perforated edges,

I feel the lingering fingers of ushers

who tore the paper and

handed back the memory.

Once in a while I leaf through them,

variegated ivy in there,

which makes a nice show,

no interval between the

master, margarita, or drowned man.

I follow the creases on

countless pieces of recollection;

myself, heart splintering from

the intense, ticking script,

my mother, dewy-eyed

watching the Dame with affection.

< This was a poem that I wrote as part of my Creative Writing module in my final year of university. Plenty of theatre references in there for those who are that way inclined!

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