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Mary MacMillan Matheson

A Memory
There is a time in your life when you realize that you are shaped more by your mother’s childhood than your own. I may have been, in theory, a child of the post-war boomers, a product of the 60s. But really, I am shaped by the world she grew up in, which was had been formed by the Victorian era of inventions like orphanages, blast furnaces, clocks and cameras, and the shipyards of the Clyde that were now making ships out of steel instead of wood.

I have written many poems for her over the years, like Transformation Passages, and the elegy in my latest collection of poems, Memory’s Daughter.

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