I float mechanically
Up the backstreets, alleys of my past.
The route was well-worn. Once.
Now dusty, aloof memory.
I didn’t intend this journey.
‘Who wants to go … there?’
And yet my path irresistibly joined that path once again.
Then I simply arrived.
Like early morning touch-down and your captain speaking,
Dulled emotion, rush to recover
The clutterings of yourself.
Only to find that everything has changed.
Is it you? Or me?
Or the goddam phoney world?
Within me but well beyond,
Berlin wall of screens, masks, and distance,
Dividing East and West anew,
My past and present.
Orange showman silhouetted by a red horizon.
Our path is curving,
I ponder as I ride.
Or perhaps it’s just another false dawn.
Passing Old Quadrangle.
Evaporated opportunities – glimpsed at, impossible to hold.
Smoke drifting from my closed hands
A kind of melancholy, watching it swirl away
It is me, both of me, all of us,
In a way, I suppose.
Of course, the Board has resolved and proactively worked to ensure student interests.
Streams of gold flicker through naked branches,
Past the white columns of Priestley.
Warming release from everything.
But only for a moment, duties to the past and future surface and ensnare
Rhythmically, pedals roll once again.
the University is empty.
but still strange…
Still! What is ‘still’ anymore?
Is this my home?
Well, school no longer is.
I am a static radio – neither here nor
Passing Baillieu Library.
This place is a hollow reminisce. Faint memory
Where is connection, emotion?
‘Where is my self?’
I observe as a stranger.
I ask myself, … what really is it?
As mechanical clicks of my bicycle
Echo into emptiness.