My tutor made a cast of my foot sealed all the way up to my ankle

It was a demonstration of how it should be done

My foot became uncomfortably hot under enveloping plaster

And my arch was slightly flattened under the pressure.

When he cut the mould away it was a relief.

Fifty years later I wonder if my youthful foot still exists

Locked away in the dark of an art college cupboard

Hidden with still life props.

I wish he had posed me on tiptoe like Hermes in the Louvre

Or Peter Pan in the park always ready for flight.