It is One-Thirty in York,

A Tuesday in September,

The sun is warm,

With a lecture to remember.

Instructed to watch –

Like a hawk up high –

All the scurriers, studiers;

Everything noted by my beady eye.

Wrinkled clothes adorn a few,

Morning breath and old beer,

To freshers, that is nothing new.

But also there’s the chugging

Of a grinding coffee machine,

From deep in the belly

Of this beautiful antique

Its scales weathered but complete.

A thousand stories, ideas,

Float and drift

On this slight breeze,

Tantalising, inspiring me.

I can see into them,

As if I’m a mystic,

And suddenly this silver-glinting pen

Begins to pirouette and bourrée.

For who better to listen to?

Than the songbird,

Humming “Fantasia”,

A nest on his head?

Who better to avoid

Like wolves in the mountain –

Black-furred, fierce – than those

With hides of boar adorning their  backs?

Who better to learn of,

Than the criminal –

Unaware, ignorant –

A tangerine cone marking his home?

Where better to do this,

Than the sun-glazed patio?

Embroidered in berries,

Nestled within the Walls of York?