Flower, ’91

My “Summer of Love”, ha! ’91?
Hardly ’67; capitalism had won
Thatcher’s decade just over, but still Blue
Prospects positive, nerves shredded, no clue
What was to come.
We fired up the Polo with the wonky exhaust
Loaded in ourselves, tents, made course
Down the ’38, over glistening Tamar
To Kernow, through Saltash and a-far.
The tape cassette whined all the way.
Anthropomorphic dance moves
Upper body whirled, feet glued
To the bass line of ‘Flower’ and ‘White Shirt’
No pogoing but still my back hurt
The next morning; I’d slept all rucked up
Dark eyes, small, bleary and shot
Peered out at the world from a blue hooded top
In the days when ‘brunch’ simply meant
You’d been up late and were spent,
Pasties for breakfast; dive-bombing seagulls.