Remember, Lincoln Rep in sixty eight Had a young coltish company? From those He flashed the winner; had a heavy nose But wild black hair, slim wrists. Yes, at that date Realism raged. Eggs sizzled every night. The candles blew the dugout maps alight. He slowed his dying, with a graceful hand Dangled from army blankets, while each flame Was beaten out. Later, I heard his name Amongst the Sixth Form, heavy drinkers, tanned. One met him in a pub (no high-priced bar), ‘Went out’. He could, she yawned, play the guitar. I yearned for him. But no, make light of this, Coach trips, dropped contact lenses, giggling friends, His Hamlet, fur cloak heaving at the end, As our provincial mothers glossed the Blitz. No corpse, failure or star, he has returned To small streets, Malvern’s hills, from the West End. Hair waves, dull grey. The perfect cheeks are bone. Slim fingers, oddly tanned, flutter his throat. ‘Musician’ adds a final programme note. We fade. By my indifferent daughter’s side I watch him drift a spoon through scentless soup, Flushed with fatigue, duck from the curtain’s swoop, Spring to the old, fine actor by his side, Salute him, face a flash, a breath’s beat. Wait, Did each map die to dust below the gilt In Lincoln Rep, in nineteen sixty-eight? by Alison Brackenbury

art by Justin Evans