Poets have a habit of turning up when least expected. If ever I pass cattle crowded at a gate, I’m likely to hear Seamus Heaney herding them with raised ash plant. Should I have to catch the London Underground, I may well find myself travelling with a giggling John Betjeman. And when I’m walking up the straight lane to Mass, Philip Larkin has a habit of wheeling his bike beside me.
Surprised by Hull: Larkin reaches his most lyrically romantic in poetry depicting his adopted hometown
City of Culture
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