The Royal Oak

One of the pubs that I had a pint in while I was at Oxford University in 2005 was The Royal Oak. Named after the oak tree that Charles I hid in while trying to escape the Parliamentary Forces, this pub sits on Woodstock Road across from the Radcliffe Infirmary.

I sat in this pub on the afternoon of August 7Th with a pint and a pen and notebook, and wrote this poem.

The Royal Oak
Christopher Bogart

I am a trespasser with questions
Of these ancient oaken floors.

Who sat by this crumbling hearth,
Held together by yoke
Of black petrified wood,
Before?

What centuries of conversations
Do these white plaster walls contain?
What royal plans?
What rebel plots?
What brave ballads sung
Of England’s sons
So very long ago?

Who spoke the words
I hear now only in whispers,
Echoing soundlessly against
Their stained plaster?

I strain to hear –
But hear nothing…
Nothing but the clinking of glass
And the distant tunes
Of a very different present.

Will future trespassers who occupy this spot
Wonder…? I wonder.
Will it be to fantasize about …
Who wrote once on this bench
Beside the hearth?
What were his thoughts,
Held now
In these ancient oaken
Floors?