An April Sunday brings the snow,
delicately bouncing against the panes of high windows as I watch the dedicated stride towards the Brynmor Jones, strangers to me as I am to you but although we have not met, I feel I know you.

A jam stained solid oak table adorned with scraps of paper, jottings only I could understand reminding me of the perilous homework
often not completed from my school days but these are my prose, my poetry, my songs.

I later decide to continue my letter sat under a splendid chestnut tree, the snow now long gone and the warm vibrant rays of sunshine beaming down upon me as I sit awhile and think random thoughts, one of which was transcribing two guitar pieces heard on the radio I have become rather fond of and I smile at the lush green grass with wild flowering blooms that surround me, a sign that Spring is here.

I reflect upon your writings as I cast my mind back to the old thatched cottage where I once lived as a boy, gathering wood and shooing off an infestation of slimy warted toads, a reference I can apply to many a man (and woman)
who has entered my life.

I walk on through wooded vales counting pigeons for some bizarre unknown reason,
thinking how distant I have become from the world.

Many famous feet have trod the same path as yourself, the same path I envisage myself taking given time.

The literary world critics praise you in one breath then pan you in another, calling you miserable. I identify with this when talking in bed to my wife
about hospital visits to my once ailing Mother. She is fine now but i fear the worst even if she sneezes, admittedly the same conversation happens frequently and yet I do not intend to sound morbid or morose.

I remember, I remember scribbling my first poems lines on a young ladies photograph album I borrowed whilst at Scarborough railway station,
resting a blank postcard upon it and pencilling my thoughts.

Sat in a Dublinesque themed public house I stare at a printed portrait of Cezanne's the card players and I smile,
I smile because my Grandmother had the very same one hanging on the wall of her cherished home.

I groan at the ignorance of politicians on my television screen uttering their oft false promises, hoping they can count on my vote.

I issue myself an ultimatum as the street lights begin to flicker, do I continue to dream or do I follow my dreams as I look at your image
imprinted upon a copy of your collected poems.

Your thick rimmed glasses and a knowing look as if you are telling me that this is my destiny,
and now, now I am going, going to be what I want to be, a writer of verse, prose and song. Thank you.





Notes: The Brynmor Jones was the library at the University of Hull where Larkin worked from 1955-1985. Whether regarded as a poem or prose there are several references to the work of this great poet. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.