The red glow of our one-bar electric fire

Reflected on our hardly bearded faces

The multi-coloured music of curved air

Synaesthesia rampant, the sweet smell

Of burning Lebanese hashish everywhere.

That thick and smoky sweet sweet air.

Nick Drake still alive amongst

The flat-lands of Cambridgeshire.

Five leaves left a common currency rolled up

And me the lad from the North Country fair

Listening to the young, still Scots-inflected

Curley-haired Bert Jansch’s  Black Waterside.

And outside the world of getting and spending.
Seeps into these wet Morecambe streets.