The prompt is a stamp.
Little packets . . .
When I was a child of no more than nine or ten
There was a trend for collecting stamps.
Albums might be loose-leaf or then again
A soft-backed book, a diary with ramps
Made of bent sticky stuff to secure
The stamps in sets on pages.
If I was good, according to mother, I might
Be taken to the corner shop, and there
In a dark corner on a nicked card, held tight
Were little packs of stamps to keep or share.
For me the name of Magyar held allure
A timeless foreign land so gracious.
Other stamps were brighter, rarer, bigger
But Magyar stamps held me in wondering thrall,
A price that made no sense that I could figure
And letters that were the strangest thing of all.
As I aged into my teens this magic spell endured,
I no longer collected, but Magyar still engages.
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