Veronica

Two hours from London
and I’m driving with the ghost
of Nick Drake.  I check
the rear view mirror;
still the gorgeous hippy princess
you smile back and say:
“if this is a three
spliff journey, we need
to stop and get some skins,
we’ve only five leaves left.”
No, my enchanted thoughts
this is our Autumn …

it must have been around 1969,
I can clearly visualise your house near
West Ham Park.  Your room
smelt of patchouli, and the scarves and shawls
hanging like cobwebs in a Bohemian tent
hid the damp patches, for it was
always so cold, cuddling up getting stoned
by candlelight until the dark
warmed us.

I might take a small detour 
and pay drive-by homage
to that old Georgian town house
set right back from the road
into its own daunting silhouette.
It’s probably been pulled down
to make way for a new road
or cul-de-sac housing estate.
At the time we weren’t even thinking
about making memories,
now we’ve become archaeology.

 

 

©2007 P.A.Levy
First published by Railroad Poetry Project 2011 (magazine closed)