I never appreciated you

till it was too late

and now


I do pine for you

on occasion, every other day

in which thoughts of spending my Monday morning

developing the two finger shuffle, Progressive

Rock gods in favour of Religious Education

in which I had no care, vinyl Heaven

for all eternity as King Crimson looked down

upon my young and eager tastes

and the sometimes berated Ian Dury album would find

away in panties, sex and drugs and rock n’ roll

and shoes to mix and match in shopping bags

the words of Roger Hodgson;

Progressive stuff read on the journey back

through the tunnel, not of love but of flickering

incandescent light that at six in the morning was enough

to send the imagination screaming and the small

radio sparks culminating in the following weeks single’s purchases.

Garth Park, a multitude of sins, no coffee shop open

on a Sunday afternoon, pile over Andy’s house for a drink

of water or wait till the local pub somehow missed we were still

fifteen and our Pool and Darts techniques were not yet honed,

flawed right eye caught the sight

of five arseholes beating the shit out of me

on Cooper School field and young Richard,

blonde hair flopping

now could take them on and perhaps have saved

me at the time;

good times,

the names of those I loved

as I think of them walking down Sheep Street,

the Christmas Carol list comprising of one song,

We wish you a merry Christmas

sang over and over again till our throats were dry and yet

Peter and I walked away with twenty quid each

in our pocket, cash in hand, strangled cat serenade

but with a smile on our face at the thought of

top ten hits in snowy nights pounding the Glory

Farm Estate.

Now those days are memories,

to Splash, my dear Steph, Claudine, Amanda, Stella, Justine,

Vicky, Vanessa, Nicola,

my darlings Catherine, taken to see Howard the Duck,

not my grandest moment

and Laura, my love…Paul, Andy, Adrian, Vincent, Justin, Richard, Richard, Alan,

Richard the third, Gary W, Billy, Tom, Robbie, Andy M, Ian B, Ian G, Ian who,

too many name by thought alone…and I would name more

but I miss you all too much as it is.

Bicester, a place which takes on sentimental thought

and sits in the same vein as Selly Park, Manhattan

and the finesse of Liverpool…

I didn’t appreciate you at the time

but know I don’t half love you still.


Ian D. Hall 2016