in my age it seems, but time. The hours too precious to me now, I shudder when I think of my twenties and the squandering of days and years. Would that I could write something great to make amends. I leave early from the desk, bike into town to a talk at All Souls, the mighty sundial of the second quad flashing in the winter sun. Guard and savour your hours, I take the inscription as warning, for all is recorded and noted and held in testimony. There’s no escaping the sum of what you are, in moments of self-reflection in the four a.m. dark. I couldn’t get my mind off the sundial as I found a seat in the seminar room. But the talk rang true, it was an hour well-spent. And the town looked right and glorious riding back, a low, bright sun to light me home.
