It feels like nettle stings as the glass like promises of sunlight dissolve in the trees
There is a white balloon caught in the branches along with lengths of rope and tattered polythene
Up there too hang the garments of a wasted youth
Too high to reach now, too far up for these old bones to climb
We’d do better to stay down here and rake the scattered polaroid’s into piles like fallen autumn leaves
Then burrow into them and hide for just a little while
Disappear into some perfect haunted summer that trembles in the past
We should all be making pilgrimages to Scarborough to conduct candle light vigils to 4 track ghosts, failed bands and the bones of the odd Bronte or two. Like Britpop never happened, thank God. Did William Blake go to the seaside to take the waters? I don't know, but if he did he was writing these songs. Vital pop dust and hidden shoe box tape operas. AB
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