Strike a match, brim up
the glass. Leave me tree ringed
and red wine stained as Sandy Denny
sings about the things that
don’t make sense.
Wood smoke smogs the room
like the aluminium sky above the Tyne,
air curling with cigarette trails
and thick with chanter,
political northeast rebel banter.
Bodies move and sway
like rushes against my oak
slant legs. Psychedelic silks entwine
with acid denim as dancing bodies groove
and wild hearts move,
in rhythm. I see the way
you look at her - your Lucy in the Skies,
wooden beads, not diamonds, kiss
her neck. Coal black mascara dripping
from lashes that run for miles.
She mines the room for
sensational smiles but
doesn’t notice yours,
then the record spins again
and Bob Dylan sings the blues.
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