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Morecambe, 1970.

The red glow of our one-bar electric fire

Reflected on our hardly bearded faces

The multi-coloured music of curved air

Synaesthesia rampant, the sweet smell

Of burning Lebanese hashish everywhere.

That thick and smoky sweet sweet air.

Nick Drake still alive amongst

The flat-lands of Cambridgeshire.

Five leaves left a common currency rolled up

And me the lad from the North Country fair

Listening to the young, still Scots-inflected

Curley-haired Bert Jansch’s  Black Waterside.

And outside the world of getting and spending.
Seeps into these wet Morecambe streets.

 

◄ The dying of the light

The rags of time ►

Comments

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Tom

Tue 13th Dec 2022 16:16

Brilliantly evocative John.

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Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh

Tue 13th Dec 2022 11:46

And outside the world of getting and spending.
Seeps into these wet Morecambe streets.

 Nice lines.

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