We met at Edmund’s ancient Hall, a crèche

for ageing medics, memories well-worn.

We feted fifty years from sixty-seven,

our B.A., M.A., B.M., B.Ch..


In nineteen sixty-four we’d all arrived

fresh faced, naïve, expecting much of life

at Oxford. Now we’d changed: grey hair, a wife,

and names of half-known faces, not survived.


We reminisced, recalled our tutors’ foibles,

passed on our children’s exploits, and our own,

and moving houses, so-called “sizing down”,

while not admitting to our failing marbles,


All this while supping glorious gourmet food,

and drinking wine, midst hopes of future good.




Peter Campion, July 2017, after an Oxford medics’ reunion.

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