‘The spring recoils upon us like a myth…’ The Professor, Kenneth Allott
We would meet occasionally, by chance,
outside lectures or tutorials,
near the bus stop by the Philharmonic Hall,
Professor Ken Allott in from the suburbs,
me from various damp, cold flats in Toxteth.
He would always speak and would always ask
about my writing. ‘A young man’s game,’ he’d say,
smiling. He was in his fifties then,
his two volumes out of print. He was
a good teacher – and a fine poet.
Ah, if I had seen then how fine – a craftsman,
witty, lyrical, ironic – what time
youth would have spent with age to learn about
our art, walking together up Hope Street.
‘Heaven is full of clocks which strike all day.
It is to music we are put away.’