Feed your head
Skylark songs lit up America
fifty years ago, on a windswept moor,
songbirds-skylarks soar into the Woodstock air
we were there
now, we trudge through memories.
Her coat was brown with feathers
she sang songs too warm, too hot for today
still, I have that evening tucked away,
in my book of wonderland music,
let's soak up words, enable the dead to speak,
like scissor sisters in white head-dresses not wrapped
in the constricting costumes of the past
hints at an impending farewell
all things must pass
the sounding of a bell.
whisper softly, as wolves wait at the doors of hell
for me, lying here surrounded by people I don't know,
happy as only the young can be be,
someone time-travels back into the future of me
maybe I'll make a better fist of being myself next time round.
Janis barely tolerates anything else.
sometimes a pile of special occasions
is laid low with bird-heavy thoughts.
Now, from my window, I see a cloudy sea of grasses
with splashes of cornflower blue
all that is past.
Now, some black-headed gull hovers above
as I look back at that granite-grey house
I left fifty years ago.
Still on the hill: the music surrounds me
as she flaps through Alice's collection of songs
this present deals in cold cuts only
the past shines through, like life itself.