The candidate is dressed by skilled hands,

decorated in scarlet robes, hood and a hat

with golden tassel dangling like a lure,

led as a bride in procession to the great hall.

Escorted, she is alone in the crowd.

 

The Bedell pauses at the door. Carrying a rod of ebony,

tipped with a silver dolphin somersaulting in the waves

he turns, sees her ready, moves up the aisle

with measured stride. She walks behind, head bowed,

mesmerised in a ceremonial bubble,

only partly aware of the ripple of eyes

breaking over their procession.

 

Sitting in front, she fills the space

with people she has known: Pete who draws cats

with staring eyes, day after day after day,

cries out, ‘You don’t know what it’s like,

you don’t know what it’s like’. and Bill

eating tulips from the coffin of his friend,

Mike shouts at the murals by his desk,

‘We used to have walls in here’ -

and torn from the garden, Raymond brings

a rose bush in full bloom,

huffing with pride he presents it:

blood and soil trickle down his wrists.

 

She watches the graduation: hatchlings to imagines,

spreading butterfly gowns as they flutter

across the stage, the quick hand-embrace, the smile,

words of congratulation from the Chancellor,

launching each with care into an uncertain world.

It is done. After party time, what will become of them?

 

The Bedell summons her.

 

She mounts the stair and listens to the Orator

running a highlighter through days that seemed

ordinary at the time, expediency playing catch-up

with the odd, making it up as she went along,

life-span squeezed into a ten minute slot.

Stories drift across the stage, the speaker turns,

smiles and doffs her hat, the candidate rises,

holds out her hands for enfolding:

honour is conferred by power invested in a gown

crusted with gold and worn with grace.

She signs the book and hugs the Orator:

something strange has happened –

honey and poignancy, the scroll she has eaten

will take time to be part of her.