by Briony Appleton

A chevron moustache of salt and pepper, leather
armchair frayed, a sweet anise brown.
Arms drawn out, face red and blotched by turpentine
vodka he hums and drums,
And the radio sings out above him;
Messy melodies perfect as bagpipes.

Suspender suit and navy slippers made
of felt bounce full with feeling.
His voice of Glasgow and Gourock calls
a name not mine, though its my face he means.
Brain matter and mind are melting before
me, he knows but does not remember why.
He breaks rhythm, and asks: You okay, darln’?

That portrait of him came to me long after
bearing his body to the furnace. Clear
is that day of him in his moment
of living. I commit it to canvas,
In my museum memory.


Briony Appleton | @brionyappleton |

Briony Appleton is a life-long word enthusiast, currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at University of Wales: Trinity St David. After previously working with For Books’ Sake and writing for her university paper CUB Magazine, she currently writes exclusively on her blog – making time to refine her academic passion for feminist literature and queer fiction.

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