I’m sorry that this week there’s not
The usual post today.
What’s happened, simply: I forgot,
And so instead I’ll tell you what
Shall come, quite soon, your way.
When, once, I wrote of Merseyside,
Remarking on our tour,
I mentioned that this blog would hide,
The source of writings having dried;
Escaping evermore.
The reason was my leaving home—
Home there in Oxford pretty.
I rode on roads: though not to Rome,
Still out of our fair city.
On leaving gone were spire and dome;
Reflections dull and witty.
This blog’s, you see, a guide I wrote
Expecting that you’d use it:
Look up therein where I’d promote,
Look over and peruse it.
You there in Oxford, take your coat
Or hat, leave essay, script and note,
Up sticks before you lose it.
And yet I might perhaps return
Before the year is out.
Of course I have some mild concern
Upsetting order, thence to turn:
Thus I have had some doubt.
So stalling, yes, will have to do—
Like this, a poem verbose.
Of course, I’ll visit places too
Up north—they won’t be close.
Get here, though, Sundays, and still you
Have yet your weekly dose.
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