Their biscuits plod through tea.
There are no lecturers at this hour,
thank God, but a few girl students
whisking down a re-crossed path
from Hall to courtyard, yard to Hall.
The teapot stews. Dai reads Tribune,
dreams of a Socialist dawn
with few students and fewer lecturers.
Michael, teenage himself,
his shoulders stooped into a stuttering shyness,
thinks more of the moonbeams which rest
some evenings on the campus grass,
of the girl who will one night appear
in the still courtyard, lay her hand on his,
hear the stammering cease.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet
would be pleased to hear from you.