I was thirteen I now realise
Forty one years ago
And forty one was the number of my house
Those thirteen years to go
You, you marched on London
Or flew in from the states, via Donegal
Read your poetry from the lectern
In that domed roof, circular celebratory hall
In Bradford of all places
Handing out fallen (or stolen) leaves
Without a hint of Maharaja or Punjab
Or Afghanistan; or even God bless them all
Is it then; for better, or worse
To have travelled to have fought the few
Is it then; for richer, or poor
To have liberated to have brought the new
I was thirteen, forty one years ago
I forget your answers
But I see your hand, undeniably white
In the dark light of the flickering leaf
