In the London autumn rain, he walked into the flamboyant fashion shop on Carnaby street – 1964. It was a London at peace with itself, pencils of the sun warming wet clothes. A strange clock chimed in the corners of infinity, a vast array of passengers perhaps nothing more than a thought in the eternal …
Whatever hope is yours about the future of our world, I know I will share. My every waking hour perpetuates that hope. ‘Young men see visions, old men dream dreams’ When I was young I had visions about changing the world, I encountered the aging cynic’s laughter, but also I encountered the giants of that …
Dead Beat Beat 1968 5am rising to work transistor radio playing, “Hey Jude” Like a heaven-sent something, giving meaning to England. 2017 10am I’m retired, cars pass my house with dead beat beat, coming from super car audio, I feel sick. (Photo used by permission of the bloke with the spotty trousers)
That day 1964, you the dreaming wordsmith, you said our dreams were ‘33lights to the wind’, We spent years believing that the sunset had red sails, now that old sea still rolls,but you are no longer here to light up the time with wonder, wonderful you fullof dreams and young heart starlight imaginings and sunset …
There once was a sun shining cloudless day that spanned a decade (or so it seemed). Much has been written about this period of time, an idealized landscape has been created that paints a picture of forever candyfloss, and the young floating up to heaven on purple coloured wings! It hardly needs to be said, …
Soho square 1967, people eating their sandwiches. ‘Hello’ in the air as ordinary as the wind. I don’t know why that day sticks in my mind, maybe it was an England at peace with itself? Whatever was there that day as summer turned to autumn, it spoke of days and eternities, something in the mind …
The sundial in a 1964 English garden, the ladies tea party and moan of gossip. Mothers union whispered in crowd introductions, and a lone bird singing. Where has the England of that hid security gone? Where is the gravestone for me to mourn? With the swiftness of an executioner’s sword, it ceased to be, In …