In a large field encompassed by the backs

of an estate of houses was the Queen's coronation celebrated

sixty years ago,  I was there.

I was where that field was

my brain in the same head

watched the spilling crowds in that

cattle pen aimlessly cavorting

violently aware of a brush stroke of history

them and us, the alien invitation

descending into the real world

and

on the bulbous screens of monochrome

poured forth the pomp, toytown with its outrageous queues

drawn like fevered mercury to gawp and with hearts fluttering

with trembling faith as I as Winston Smith

cross - legged accepted a neighbour's invitation

courtesy of the nation.

All this in a day

 

and then Everest was conquered and

in the bold brigand way we still owned much of the world

and the right to despise and look down

on all those represented by the Crown.

 

I revisited that sad deserted field just lately

sterile, preserved by bye - laws

tufted and undisturbed by state occasion,

more weary now was the area, with its

local ghosts gone, together with my parents.

I stood to attention for a lost memory of the Queen.

Nothing for me will be the same again

and never was it likely, as this head

has a wiser view, outgrown the

scruffy pleasure we treasured

when the world was new.