Sixty seven was the year of setting free,
final eviction from a sideshow family life
serving teas from a kitchen in a cave.
After that day trippers out walking the Edge
could no longer stop to meet the Flintstones,
ponder a world deep beyond their window.
No more generations rocking in the hole,
winding the deep well in apron or smock.
No more tinted memories in black and white
of smoky winter warmth and airy summer cool.
No ozone flap of laundry on the roof terrace,
no place for scythe or besom against a wall.
The Seventies ruined Holy Austin for real.
Without guardians she regressed, lost her grip,
let vandals in to ruminate and urinate,
to smoke out and litter out her lonely rooms.
They only made the most of what they found:
house to cave, rock to wreck, dust again to dust.
Lucretia, Benjamin, Thomas, Sarah, John,
all of the names and their earth-honest trades
have gone forever, won’t live there anymore.
But postcard perfect rehab still leaves room
for history’s penknife on red-stone walls:
ban the bomb, a heart; Kenny, Sandra, England.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment