Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties

                                Spring Warwick breezes
                over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with
                                                the occasional shift and chirp of David
                                                                in the pastel-long morning of the sixties

—–~“O”~—–

1962 (don’t make me over)

                                                                                she
                                                caught the side of his face as
                                she said the words she was supposed to
                                                stopped –
                                accordion-lines, jaw-&-sideburns-handsome –
                but didn’t finish

—–~“O”~—–

1963 (wishin’ & hopin’)

                                                she
                                opened the window
                and the still treetops from the city park
                                echoed across the dusty floorboards

—–~“O”~—–

1963 (wishin’ & hopin’)

                                step
                                by
                                step
                I look down at the differing shades
                                stony beige and grey
I hear the sound of shkrnts and scrapes and find my own clear voice
                                of ‘but’
                                and ‘I’

—–~“O”~—–

1963 (wishin’ & hopin’)

                                      steppin’
                                ‘n’  lope-n’
                                ‘n’  swingin’
                                ‘n’  toe-n’
                                ‘n’  makin’
                                m’  way fr’m
                                  a  room to n’other
                                      with only a creak to pretend

—–~“O”~—–

1963 (make the music play)

                                walking
                along the flint and concrete sea wall
                                curving far far on ahead
                between the pastel sea blue of the bay
                                and the slate windows
                of the beige and venetian future

—–~“O”~—–

1963 (this empty space)

                                in this empty room I hear
                echo on floorboard
                                I can speak clearly now
                I don’t need to fill the room
                                I can open the window

—–~“O”~—–

1963 (this empty space)

                                the plastic click of
                                pull-down kitchen cupboards
                                of all colours through all the
                                open windows
                                in Spring
                all up and down the alley behind the steep hill of tall Victorian houses

—–~“O”~—–

1964 (you’ll never get to heaven (if you break my heart))

                she stood up from the
                lime-green tablecloth we bought and walked
                down through the streets
                between morning shadows …

—–~“O”~—–

1964 (you’ll never get to heaven (if you break my heart))

                                lala lala lala   laaa
                la lalala
                                la lalala

—–~“O”~—–

1964 (walk on by)

                                                up
                                over the windy hill
                on the sunny morning in autumn
                                                the city
                                sunk lower with each
                                                                                fresh
                                                                                                step

—–~“O”~—–

1964 (anyone who had a heart)

out of all the gathered crescendos only
my own voice sustained clear

while others waited contrapuntally
for the outcome and rejoinder

—–~“O”~—–

1964 (reach out for me)

                                … looking at the love
                                in everyone’s eyes that
                                they cannot see under their hats
                and the weather

—–~“O”~—–

1964 (reach out for me)

                                down by the fishing
                boats the wind still searches through
                     the aran jumper

—–~“O”~—–

1965 (are you there (with another girl))

                                the traffic
                the cars and the blocks of trucks with their air-breaks and axels pass
                                and recede

                                silent
                over the bridge on the way past the docks and cranes save for
                                the line

                                on the radio
                which ends ‘instead …’ and doesn’t resolve until ‘… of me’ to
                                change down gear

—–~“O”~—–

1966 (I just don’t know what to do with myself)

                                up in the hills
                contemplating the cold guide rail directing-back-to-safety horizon
                                of mist over the wide wide city –
                                                I’m alright
                                                yes I’m alright

—–~“O”~—–

1966 (trains and boats and planes)

                                there
                                are
                other parts of the world all
                across the possibilities of my heart
                and I could follow them all over but that
                the deep-green and waxy sadness tells me
                what I already know and that I have already lost
                                where
                                I am

—–~“O”~—–

1967 (I say a little prayer)

                                one early
                                evening
                                in London
                                amid the
                                fug of
                                cabbage
                                and the
                                clack of
                                cleared
                                plates

the deep orange sand was turning purple
and the piled rocks remained white and mauve

in the
desert

—–~“O”~—–

1967 ((theme from) the Valley of the Dolls)

                                                                1967
                                                a holocaust
                                                happened

                                                quietly
                                despite all the ultimatums and final words rising crescendos and
                                                muffled maybe

                                                                like a settled mist –
                                                houndstooth sound –
                                heavy on her back

                                                from which
                                she slowly rose like a hill dewy and scrub-plant green
                                                                both clean
                                                                and clear
                what she had to do for the next decade

—–~“O”~—–

1968 (do you know the way to San Jose)

orange sand and mauve mist

                              probably twenty
                miles across the empty land
                  the traffic still swooshed

—–~“O”~—–

1968 (promises promises)

the rear of the bus
moved out of the scene – whitened blue

the wide open spring air
reached between buildings – to grimy lime

and avenues rolled down
in every direction – through flash lemon

bolts of mist and haze
across each intersection – and ankle mauve

and slightly too little
worn – for the morning shift of breezes

—–~“O”~—–