Worn weary, to the edge of sleep my feet

ache, blistered in lead boots, all topped by burn

of calf and thigh; my sole urge to return

to Leafy Glades, i head down Spencer Street,

 

where it hits me: i've not been here in years.

Forty-seven, to be exact. A flood

of memories overwhelms me. I stood

on this precise spot then, when, in my ears

 

the first inkling of a revolution

made itself heard one muggy Autumn day,

as that tinny radio blared its call

 

to arms, and screamed out its absolution

to wired youth. 'Anarchy In The UK!'

In filth and fury lay the old guard's fall.