The Ballad of the Glen

They who dance while washing up,
They whose hands are never still,
They who never say no to a cup of tea -
It goes against my will,
But the solemn Jeff Buckley fan down the hall,
Oh to be the size and shape of she,
Needs the most help of all
Even when dressed as a Christmas tree.

Hours pass slowly as freight trains in the night
At the nurses' station when the children cry,
but when trailing home on tired feet
Early in the morning, there to greet
Is a warm-hearted Westerner with a smile.

They who play hockey,
They who smash cups,
They who argue but soon make up,
They who shoot pheasants,
They who drive cars,
Or get into punch ups outside student bars,
They who are laughing,
They who are sad,
All inhabit the world
And make it less mad.

But what of the houseplant at the end of the hall?
Always so quiet, grows best in the cool
And damp of the harbour.
Well, plants don't grow much at all
Unless they have sunlight and laughter
And learn how to play pool.


So, what do you do when all about you things are falling down? What do you do when you think that the most important moment of your life is going to be marred by other people's dramas? What do you do when two people you care about seem intent on tearing each other apart, and putting their fists through toilet windows in January? The answer, for me, is to write. Writing does not solve any problems, but ma
This poem is for all the people I have met so far, I can only write about a few of you, but I've tried so hard to immortalise what we have made for ourselves here at university which is, clearly to me at least, no less than the first step of many towards a new life. A life which may be dimmer than before, at least on paper, but which will maybe set alight our minds. Well, in some people's case, I think it'll be more like the glow from a cigarette butt, but it's a start!

Hopeful.