I sit in the Quad
A cool air disturbs
My hair as I squint
Up: the early light
Strikes me at an awkward
Angle.  The place has a Friday sense.

The air is loud with birdsong.
Behind the wall, in Swallowgate Lane,
A man is whistling: a sure sign of Spring:
Other spirits too are lightening.

I sit and dream, dream
Of words on a page which
Are mine, and one day
Printed in a book with
A picture of me set before
My words like Robert Crawford.

I dream and look
About me, feel the breeze
From the future brush
My face.  I rush towards
An unknown place

Except today, a Friday
In Summer Term, I meander.
Life by Degrees
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