You Couldn’t Write It
You always remember your first Shakespeare,
the unconvention of a coach trip to Stratford,
dozens of different uniforms for a school matinee
and a thrilling performance of Richard III.
Except it wasn’t one of the Histories,
so that rules out 10 or more, depending
on whether you include the Roman plays.
We’d have enjoyed the blood of Julius Caesar.
Up in the circle, next to a girls’ school
in mauve blazers, we watched the traitors
put the daggers in. Except, I’m sure they
would have made a bigger impression.
Perhaps it was As You Like It and we didn’t,
struggling with street slang of the 1590s,
when we were Carnaby wannabes
at each weekend. It wasn’t the Tempest,
we’d have remembered Arial and Caliban,
Prospero too, like a big-time David Nixon.
On the road home, it’s just come back,
an accident on a roundabout near Oxford.
A plank of wood came through the side
of the coach and pinned our English Master’s
tweed jacket to the seat. It just missed
his left hip. Still, all’s well that ends well.