by Tom Davy
To the first term’s autumnal fog.
Tears tumble off marooned cheeks
That peek into new rooms, new curtains,
Parted like families.
Then there’s the names that fizz
Like molecules around the hall,
A mahogany pit of reaction
We’re all playing potters,
Clay bridges between ourselves
Form like the celestial lines above.
The Oxford sky observes quietly
Then mutters something
And it pours down.
And the realisation gains momentum:
Three short years from now,
Beneath these muttering clouds,
New stuttering students
Will stutter staircase
And share newly in the rain.