Saturday, 11 February 2017

The Spring Of 77

Winter was slow
To release its grip
On the springtime                                             Of our content

Adulthood barely tasted
We tested fresh waters
Finding new reasons
For laughter

And how we laughed
In the Spring of seventy seven

In the loving
Of countless homeless
Children in Care

Going together after work
To the Continental
Where we drank as little
As fast as we could afford

When we hadn’t
A soda-and-lime or a
Pint of Harp between us
We went to Seapoint
For the last dance for free

Throwing down our coats
The girls threw down their bags
On the floor where we danced
Together in our circle

And the Memories 
Did Bohemian Rhapsody
Better than Queen

So it seemed to us
Dry ice and all

And the night would not
Be deep enough

And we being slow as Winter

Gate-crashed the party
Of a stranger going in
Through the basement


Where the bright cheap light
Reflected the cold of night

We bottomed out where
The skirting board met the floor
The wall lined with

Denims and navy jumpers
And desert boots kicked off

Taking everything
That came around our way
Keeping each other warm

And I not knowing
A joint asked my neighbour
What it was

He looked at me
And said what did I think it was

It was lost on me
Never connecting with
My addictive streak

And I spared that
Particular future battle

Thanks be to God
Thanks bit a God
You might say

There was deep meaningful
Conversation deeply affected
Socialism belting back and forth
To the Songs of Leonard Cohen

Like a bird on a wire
Our voices going down
Down to the nether

Where Sorrow crouched
Like the sin of Cain
Outside the door

Biding its time

While we danced slow
And walked each other
Home eight nights of the week

Too late and too long for the liking
Of our parents

Too early and not long enough
For us and the season of our joy

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