My veins are full of coffee, not blood
I feel wired but dog tired.
The students on the campus look so young.
To them I am merely a delegate –
a suit: Mondeo man.
Lost in Nottingham in my car
I re-trace a fragmentary past–
the Albert Hall, the wall of Wollaton Park
Denman Street, off Radford Boulevard
where my dad bought cheap towels.
Who will remember these drab streets that formed me –
the ripe blackberries
the Hemlock Stone
and my mountains – the Bramcote Hills?
No-one. I am the last of my line.
There is a greyness in this midlands town
that even the sun does not expunge.
Hope and melancholy alternate.
I am at one with the swaying poplars
the factory chimneys and the clouds.
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