Maybe they're here somewhere, lost
in these crowds of students, informal
in their tweeds, plus fours –
Sassoon, the elder, Sunday golfer;
Owen, bookish, gangly, pale – mingling
with the queue for the refectory,
snatching nervously at fags, ignoring
notices forbidding all those here
to smoke. You catch a glimpse
you think, later, in the distance
– backs straight, military haircuts –
turning down a corridor you glance along
but they're not there.  No, no-one is, though
low light slants through window frames,
plants these crosses on the wall.
Brian Johnstone
Reproduced by kind permission of the poet.
Brian Johnstone

Brian Johnstone is a poet, performer and literary events organiser.

Read more about this poet