On the Death of Chatterton
i.m. Becky Morning in the gallery, sunlight floods the atrium. A harried dad ushers twins with fuchsia pink ruck-sacks to the shop. Pre-Raphaelites first? a woman asks her friend. A clatter of school kids descends. Strange, I find myself alone in front of Chatterton again: right arm limp, face gaunt, neck livid; a phial of poison and torn papers strewn across the garret floor. Christ-like, his pose, the hush are the closest I get to church. Dust-motes float a memory through my heart – another lost poet, beautiful, young; I cup my hands to catch her, find her gone. Jane Salmons Jane Salmons lives in Stourbridge in the UK. Currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing, she has had poems published in The Ekphrastic Review, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Algebra of Owls and other webzines and journals.
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November 2023
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