We don’t talk much

beyond the weather,

but we can talk football 

forever and ever.

Drive into the box,

mark the man in space,

a shared language, we

can kick all over the place.

Your personal terms met. 

Time for a fresh dawn. 

Our commentary box quiet,

your armchair view gone.

Our home game ended, 

and there’s no time added on.

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As autumn's rusty fingers begin
to push their way through tired trees
So, the early dimming light
and spectral chill conspire
to gently sweep me back in time

It's Oxford in the autumn
nineteen; with eyes opening
A new life unfolding
cycling through the leaves
and sighing under bridges

Oxford in the autumn
that brick so old around me
broad streets, illogical lanes
busses and puddle...

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For this week's Saturday Rhymers theme: Leaving Home.

When I go back and stay at my Dad’s place,

It’s great, but it’s no longer home.

I struggle to get my own kids off to sleep

In the room that I once called my own.

They watch cartoons, just as I did

Two sofas, three tellys ago.

So much is the same, yet so much has changed,

Though I try hard to not let i...

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