This is another poem intended for the These, My Streets project. Oxford runs right beside by my house between the library on Woolwich and the highschool on Yorkshire.


It isn’t your fault
that you disappoint
my expectations.
You do your best,
run from seat of learning
to seat of knowledge,
and it’s hardly your problem
that one isn’t Magdalen,
the other something less than Bodleian,
that neither has a spire
to wade in the river valley’s mist,
that neither has the river valley even,
never mind the mist,
but I can’t help it
if I want a little more,
some cobblestones maybe,
a buttress, a gargoyle,
a grass quadrangle
marked in arched walkways.

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