When Donna Summer was Queen of the disco scene

the drought of seventy -five was just a memory,

and in that torrid summer I burst with lust

northbound to Scarborough

home of Max Jaffa who reigned in the dancers

to sweet cascades

revived from fish suppers and the esplanades.

My right foot down the motorway

for temptation's fresh embrace

with Debbie, dancer at the Floral Hall

near the cliffs, where Edwardians

strolled or rested in naughty and bracing gardens

watching listless petals fall.

 

Frank Ifield topped the bill that year

when seven and seven made seventy seven

his nutbrown voice that defied the octaves

on a trapeze of yodelling

was radio magic, and just as a sweetener

Bert Weedon set up the show

with tiny amp and Truvoice echo.

 

Time of course deploys itself without much thought

for nostalgic sport

and my fruiting searches came to naught,

but still I feel the resonances ring

where flats sprung up

where I tried to do my thing.

 

I often wonder if Frank got there first,

another Australian on the game,

but Debbie went global on the ships

while I went back down south again.