Hunched over a Maths textbook,

not filling in Algebra equations,

refusing to bow down to going beyond

angles as they at least

were useful when playing pool

against Andy Bell in many

a Bicester public house,

the cover of the book

instead a hive of activity

in reprinting lyrics from memory

and my own tentative steps,

laborious, protracted and the topic

of conversation between headmaster

and pupil, between careers advisor and

stubborn boy who didn’t want

to anything but write, act and produce

poetry; the scorn of it all, not fit

for anything but the army,

well I tried your uniform on

and saw that it wasn’t for me,

too filled with starch and fear,

and whilst it may have taken forever,

there is a finger slowly being raised

across Time and no matter if nothing

else can ever match it, I at least once

proved a point.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016