I can still get lost in Sheffield.
There are still surprises to be found here.
In its shops, in its people, in its long hills
that flat and carry.
In seeing my friends, together so slightly,
before he wandered on to the hospital.
To the failure to show up to class,
the melancholy that caused it,
swiftly grey, repressed, then
To the times, many, today and
tonight where I am so close to
tears, then my excitement
holds them back.
That the architect knew
of the rising art, pushed
onwards by council,
And we laughed about progress,
and regress, and I knocked over
his pizza, then dealt with it
I don’t think you know how
happy that simple helps me.
That there’s laughter here, through
all the palpable nightsweats, terrified
pillowtalks, self-assessments before
meetings, and forged in obvious union,
steely greetings, graceful fears almost,
but never held back.
The North is too honest for that.
That there’s still so much of a mess
to make, and smiles to see, from
people I’m yet to meet.
That I can sit here, not bothered
at all to tap into my phone, rather
than wait until the moment has
That I used to be so shy. That
I used to barely even be alive.
That I suppose we’ve all
survived, and it’s hardly
a surprise, really, when
we’re built to withstand
so much more.
In Sheffield, I am
no longer bored.