A bag juts into my elbow, hard.

I'll have a bruise there tomorrow.

I stumble into a shop, see a postcard

The metallic Edwardian script

Tells me the breath-taking coiling spires, flaring,

Gold crests, and northern lights,

Are Oxford.

But I live one stuffy bus ride away,

With spices cooking, and my broken alarm clock

Flashing, irritably, I don't bother to fix it.

With my grey sky, littered with my grey clouds

With my goldfinches pecking at burdock,

I have lived here,

Hard green berries crunch as I pick my way,

And my jeans are ripped, I'm earnestly considering,

What jungle tree to sleep in.

I have lived here,

A wrapper squished to my pocket lining,

The smell of over-sugared strawberry scent,

And I'm counting pennies for cheap sweets,

To share between the milling group,

As we laugh, and talk and chew on.

The tears evaporating, and the smiles

In my bitter cold, soaring winds,

There's a kid cycling on my street,

In what seems endless swings,

I've curled on the maroon patched carpet,

Clothes scattered around me,

My flimsy paperback pressed to my glasses,

The cover dull, one page ripped,

The words of Lyra's twisted Oxford, still hits me.

I have lived here my whole life.