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Liverpool University

The university looks like a church
for the worship of muck and brass.

I climb a lavatory-tile staircase
to the Prof’s eyrie and a queue of girlish smiles.

I chat with a little dark-haired one,
who, unfortunately, reminds me of my mother.

The Prof is silver, frail and
melting melodious notes to lutes of amber.

I stand erect like lead before
a Jacobean alchemist in search of gold.

In my utility trousers and new shoes
my heels are military, my shoulders bold.

The Prof is wincing. Three years
soldiering have made me gauche.

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