Getting on at Notting Hill
A baglady. More or less.
Big, sad and grey.
Late thirties at a guess.
Change at Euston
for the Marrakesh Express.
Elastic-band bangles,
sandal-length dress.
Layer upon layer
of embroidered tat.
Smoke-blackened mirrors,
large floppy hat.
A mucky pup
(Afghan hound?)
in hippy best.
(Morocco bound
with Crosby, Stills and Hope.)
Lamour?
Whatever happened
to l’amour?
Kohl-black eyes downcast
flutter now and then
at men who fast
avert their gaze.
Neil Young, where art thou now?
Donovan, T. Rex?
Those incensesensual days,
Sweet nights of sex.
She puffs hard her cigarette,
Lets loose the ash.
Dreams about l’amour
and Graham Nash.