Hope on the Verge of Winter, 1969.(Revised).

        
Through a glass darkly I perceive her
Caught in the prism of former times,
North London Girl
Pale as the Arctic ice floes,
                                         Green eyed,
Nordic,
            Allergic to the bright morning sunlight
Dissecting grey mountaintops of cloud
           & yet,
Almost in love with the Autumn rains
Threshing and sluicing her unkempt hair
Into black rivulets.
She walks in a trance, head down, eyes askance,
Gloved hands pushed deep into over stuffed pockets,
Cigarette unlit,
Bag under armpit,
As feline like she deftly navigates
The dank old alleyways that intersect
Derelict Victorian terraces.



Through a glass darkly I recall her
Half dreaming, half believing those small drear rooms,
Demented sanctuaries, that stunk So disarmingly of dud moth
balls, beer, Wine, socks, boots, incense sticks, hash, green tea,strong
black coffee, Air Freshener, burnt bacon, sex. Bedsits cold as Colditz
Where,
            hunkered down by the small gas fire and wrapped in a rug
Naked
We squatted in a battle zone of old army blankets, cushions, grey pillows,
pants, bras, cosmetics, old books, comics, Presbyterian tracts.
Two kids in cahoots,
Volatile adolescents, smoochyly dragging on Sobranie cigarettes,
(So illicit....So divine), 
To experiment with refinement, (So divine....So exquisite),
fake dignitas, real culture, elementary style; & then half dismissing
or, tired out half listening
                to broadcast takes on Shakespeare, G & S, O F Wilde,
(So boring....So THE Beeb....So Grandma Moses....So effette )
Or our pile of worn out 45s spun weirdly out of sinc
                                           On a madly warped turntable.



But then in secret                               at my parents house
Some quiet weekends                       I would rinse her hair  
As she crouched down low              in the old stepped bath
Covering her breasts                        with tremulous fingers.



Through a glass darkly I remember
A cool chick with the Beatles
Squatting in a studio
Tambourine in hand             singing.
What a shame                      Mary Jane had a pain at the party.
And some other songs I cannot now remember.

North London girl
Pale as the Arctic ice floes;
                                         Green eyed
Allergic to the white morning sunlight
Dissecting grey mountaintops of cloud.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
6th. December 2003 - 22nd. - February 2013. - 25th. February 2014.
May 20th. 2020.