Picture of St Ives in the 1960s

Back then something made youth sacred in that, “Our – time” fools romance’ the Jingle jangle dance of the glorious naïve poets, troubadours and Desolation Angels in a chaos of being. The moon’s laughing symmetry of a design, fitted only for us and our kind who were locked into a new labyrinth way of being. Violets, roses, laurel and small sweet twinkling somehow, thinking things, fairy dust in our hair enlivening the snoring ghosts of 69. The world alive just for us on the beach land from Falmouth to St Ives …… The vast magical shadow of Donovan the writer in the sun, in his empire of imagining.

The Sun came up and went down a thousand times until it fell asleep……. Like a bored butterfly it all flew away one day, a self-love spirit of destruction came in with the tide, and brought the revolutionary hordes, enemies of, “All you need is Love” ……. An old black and white photo now tempts my memory to an idol, I dare not go there!

Years after those days, I was on a train deep in thought, the train slowed as it came into the station. On a slow-moving train coming out of the station I saw you framed in the carriage window, a doomed countenance round you, something inside me broke, the moon is no longer on our side…………

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