Remembering ’68

I’m listening to Sexy Sadie.

Remembering ’68.

My uncle and his friend Glen gone away to Canada.

Young men.

I see their glossy smiles on my wall.

And I’m lost for a while among rows of plastic seats.

Remembering school – brand-new.

The fence was high and jumping over the other side the grass came over our heads.

We thought we could hide.

Crab-apple trees by the beck.

I can see the walls of the class, defaced with ink.

Rubber stamps – clock-faces.

Disruptive even then.

The walls have gone.

Torn down for a new age.

Shit!

The teacher’s probably dead, too.

’68.

It’s a long way from here.

The music sounds so fresh in my ear.

But the players are all old men. Or gone.

In ’68 I began to hear.

Began to see.

Apollo 8.

More.

Something happened.

I became aware.

The beginning of all of this.

Tiredness suddenly takes me.

The universe slips and I catch myself.

Stare out at a world rushing by.

Remembering ’68.

1,634 thoughts on “Remembering ’68

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