Almost Oxford

City of spires, you were always there
In the distance, chiming, singing, rhyming
Echoes of earlier times.
From the first time I set foot
On hallowed paths worn by time
As a wide-eyed child
I heard eons pass, thought I knew
The colour of discovery.

From blossom years arose a goal
Out of the morning mists
Others around me opened my eyes
Inspired me to strive, to try
Be one of the elite.
Books, always my companions,
Paved my way to unreal reality.

Several hundreds more like me
Tasted competition in the very iron
Of the gates of Saint Hugh’s-
The college a little way out from the town
Smaller
With gardens
Serene-
More like me.

Three days of juxtaposition:
symbolic swans, tiered tables,
black mould spores and a big hole in my door.
Brecht Hesse Hugo Verlaine
Flowing off my tongue like names of wines.
Always that weight of age surrounding
Shrouding me. Creeping doubt.

Every second an act, a play, a semblance
I played
A more animated, wealthy, cultured version
Of me. Magnifique! Felt
Utterly, utterly drained.

When winter fell upon
Embellished roofs
Indigo night veiled, for once
Unstudded with celestial gems
Young dreams curved into lettering of gravestones
A thousand tears froze, made maze-paths treacherous.

To want, to have wanted, to want for ever more
Like some hideous grammatical test.
The hours of time now history
I imbrued with facts- first hope-
Blushing, believing disbelief?- all gone to waste!
City of spires, you were never mine,
Too grandiose, steeped in prestige
Of worthier generations
But longing dies not with hope.

Now I wander your streets
Ridding myself of this empty ache,
Neither scholar nor citizen
And try to make peace
With the ancient bricks and hallowed halls.
I am like your towers and spires,
Eternally striving, straining
To touch the gilded sky
Aim forever unattainable.
I close my eyes, sharp chill winter breeze
And sigh-
It was almost Oxford.