In Oxford today I wept for my own folly.
Then I dried my eyes and wrote this.
For it is never too late to create.
As Oxford spires condescend
I am like Hardy’s Jude, obscure
I cannot blame the privileged
Or prettier girls who got it right
Labours of teachers made in vain
Sins of the fathers or the Seventies
I chose my own way wilfully
An education of a different kind
So many bridges have I drowned and yet
I now, like Lennon’s Jude, will take
My song of ignorance so badly writ
And better it