Ercol Nights

Strike a match, brim up

the glass. Leave me tree ringed

and red wine stained as Sandy Denny

sings about the things that

don’t make sense.

Wood smoke smogs the room

like the aluminium sky above the Tyne,

air curling with cigarette trails

and thick with chanter,

political northeast rebel banter.

Bodies move and sway

like rushes against my oak

slant legs. Psychedelic silks entwine

with acid denim as dancing bodies groove

and wild hearts move,

in rhythm. I see the way

you look at her - your Lucy in the Skies,

wooden beads, not diamonds, kiss

her neck. Coal black mascara dripping

from lashes that run for miles.

She mines the room for

sensational smiles but

doesn’t notice yours,

then the record spins again

and Bob Dylan sings the blues.

a.h.