In my youth it was like a long street I lived on,

From Hendon Central to Leeds 6,

Friends lived at both ends

With others and some acquaintances

At various points in between.

A red and white snake, or mottled grey.

A rucksack and a thumb.

So when that nice lady from Google Maps

Guided me back up the M1 recently,

How ridiculously familiar!

Even after almost fifty years.

And the spirit of an age floated back up,

From the side of that early flyover, hardly faded,

Not sprayed over by some self-referential aerosol arsehole,

Not sponsored by Birds Eye,

But simply as ever,

GIVE PEAS A CHANCE.

 

And John and Yoko too rose before me again,

Lounging in their bed as the World's press

Aimed its lens of scorn at them.

Yet Nirvana is extinction.

You can write your name in the stars, if you really need to.

An ancient approach to that desperate modern scam

Of hinting at immortality, that faint unfulfillable promise!

Not for me, thanks. Can't buy it, and don't want it.

David Whyte's dictum is good for me.

Delivered, as always, in his gentle evocative way,

That repetitive revelation of layers of meaning:

Apprentice yourself to your own disappearance

Apprentice yourself to your own

Apprentice yourself to your

Apprentice yourself to

Apprentice yourself

Apprentice your

Apprentice

Apprent

App

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