Court Of The Crimson King

She was sixteen, I'm sure you know that

And to come from town was quite a way

You must have known it would not be tit for tat

To chase the girl yet not to play… sailaway

I know you have to be around for everyone

And that you have a swathe of friends

But, even if you give out your special song

You may not expect the girl to make amends

To invite three; at least three that I know of

There may have been more

Certainly they arrived before the police

And the other pretty girls queued outside the door

Not all at your brothers bequest either

Nor for your football friends misdemeanours

Neither luvvies, or hippies from the Builder's club

Or dance floor divas, from Lord Jim's Discotheque

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The stuff of dreams

You would have enquired further I said

I thought it wrong to trespass, to invade

Someone else's privacy; it was just an excuse

The lack of an adventurous spirit anywhere within

Yet the images are carried with me, the once

Deeply overgrown garden; trimmed back

To the stubble and the bare earth beneath

The ivy and the clematis; once in flower, now clung

From all sides of the cottage and the roof

The window panes and all along the veranda

Where I guess you listened to the radio

Or sat drinking lemonade with your sister

Perhaps share a sandwich, deep in conversation

Awash with plans to build your own writing room

With wicker chairs and potted plants, in the middle

Of the garden, falling to stream and church spire

The original curtains, do they hold all of your stories

Which you no doubt told through endless summers

Early winter mornings, a view out over the frost

Your steaming tea, and double-buttered teacakes

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The movie maker

From dark, to shadow, to light, to sunshine

From nothing, to doubt, to hope, to certainty

Unveiling of my little story

In less than ten minutes

Though by the summer

It could be half an hour

From a muddle, to a mess, to an idea, to fruition

From grey, to black, to blue, to deepest sunset red

I recall the circle

The hero, the villain

The defining moment

And a good number of tests

From autumn, to winter, to spring, to summer

From gold, to white, to green, to heavenly skies of blue

Write about what you know

Remember the words of Yevtushenko

A poet's autobiography is his poetry

Anything else is just a footnote

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It affects everyone you know

We, we had advance warning

Time to press the tuxedo, to chill the martini

Undress the olives, prepare; be ready

To celebrate our winning of the war

The balcony is art deco, as is the radio

And also the gramophone player

We talked, we kissed, we danced, we listened

Gaily to the momentous news from the front

For the fiftieth anniversary

We put the house on the market; we included

All of our belongings and the photographs

Lest we should forget to remember

The swimming pool had its own room

To change in, or to take a telephone call

Perhaps there had been a butler

Or a handyman, or a maid in a pinafore

You cope with all the ups and downs

Of this terrible war; endlessly you question

How could you help, how on earth

Could you make a contribution

And so to the night of the party

To lift everyone's spirits; perhaps you

Will read a poem in your soft thoughtful voice

Wilfred Owen perhaps, or one of his dead mates

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Looking out for each other

Half an Aspirin

If that’s all it takes

To steady the tear

In your eye

I will ask the doctor

For sure I, neither, wish

For anything to happen

At a stroke

Leaving me or you

Without the hope of a pen

Or the laughter

Of again making love

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