By Thomas Glendon

YEP, that’s him chatting away

Half gulped finger clad pint in hand

Some other time interesting points

To be clipped at the great they/them

The unheard dross of piped music

In the din of downed brew and drawn debate.

There she was slinkilly shuffling in the low light,

To the four two four slow tempo of the band

Swaying, swans grace, songbird steps

with her hands by her sides

Fingers flared out,

in a light dress of quantum possibilities

Mirroring purity in bobbed boyish hair

framing penetrable eyes distantly musing

I don’t care, really really don’t; how do I tell him

In his alcohol warped fragile state

Proufounding importance on puerile

Never tomorrows to access and perspectively place.

Another, not yet, or will say yes, to bar-tie him and

catch a wisp of ancient heart etched lines

Galactic distant under glitter ball

How to wistfully weave

through smouldering movements

To get by all, to all and only that shines,

Before that poltroon in the shadows

Stumbles upon Summer’s

youthful Saturday night’s treasure

Devilishly distract him, find a key word to set off

A trading rant of monopinion, ignite his brain, and start

well-deep thinking in self absorbs ion and muttering

In open-ended maze of cul-de-sacs while I catch that clarity

Of when words held a future

Botechillan linear grace, with smirkful nod

pressed its slightly tilted shampoo fragrant head

softly saying “so was I”, in reply

To my heart-raced clumsy line

of wished to grt here first

While Eric’s Lespaul gently wept

All washed out of his steaming rage now

Weeks grit, grind and gripes becalmed, unwound,

To coil up in sleep drenched in forgetfulness

Whilst I catch the fade out of youthful anthem

Chance to descend to my living past

Of warm night with bright star lit skies

Summer sunrise mornings

when time was immeasurable

Where valiant vitesse triumphed

in slow low lit dances

And clamping was something

sweet and shared

And, the songwriter framed it so clearly: