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.

And young Nick Drake still alive amongst

The flat-fen-lands of Cambridgeshire

Five leaves left a common currency  

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.

Spread along these wet streets of Lancaster.