"It's the one above yours,

the haunted attic room,"

said a friendly musician 

in a sober moment 

after I heard an old man speak from a heavy chair

while falling asleep.

 

During that summer season at Poole

we had our honeymoon,

needing to work

with Peters and Lee,

Max Bygraves topping the bill. 

Chas and Dave were there in another suite.

The sun was rising on all good things,

poking its nose into the quayside

the massif of Bournemouth bluecast. 

 

Most of my summer work was shared with fresh sea air

on impossible piers on in stuccoed citadels

with red carpets and old theatre bills,

but that summer was special,

Max working to a sea of grey appreciation. 

 

Later a permanent move to Australia to relax

a roll call of dementia,

a proud wall of gold discs of Singalongamax.