The first day,

stuck in between appointments

and the risk of running out of steam,

I found you alone, blue jacket

protecting you against the September

driving pulse of crammed

up halls and lost momentum.

 

A lit cigarette punching above its weight,

enthusing will power into the lungs

and the air of nonchalant

grace tasting beautiful

as it hit the Liverpool air

outside the lecture hall; the final

trip of the day and felt like wheeling

away from it there and then.

 

I asked you for a light, a match, a forest

on fire, my admittance card blowing

sparks, a simple red headed strike

turning crow black dead of night

and smelling of sulphur

and I confessed that I believed I didn’t

feel that I should be there, given access

to the world, that I or Dorothy should see beyond

the velvet curtain.

 

Mingling with early disclosure

permitting the smoke from my cigar

and your dying rolled up fag,

Dorothy like, I peeked into an emerald

world and saw the machinery,

the mechanics and the domination,

the overpowering need

to understand even a fraction

and as the last of grey whispers

burnt the edge of my fingers

and filled the Liverpool air,

I pleaded guilty as charged,

I did belong here.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016