Beatles

The Ice is Slowly Melting

And if you gaze long into Abbey Road,
Abbey Road also gazes into you.’

They cross but come back once more,
in the early August morning light,
walking out, not quite in step,
painting colour on black and white.

A photographer perches on his ladder,
sandals lie abandoned on the floor,
a man – with hands on hips – gazes, counts:
one and one and one and one is four.

It would have been easier to let things be,
declare they were already past their prime,
but they want to – they want to so bad –
come together, right now, one last time.

Because the amps are there, they turn them on
and – for a moment – arguments disappear;
there’s something in the way they play,
it seems like years since they’ve been here.

Ringo counts them in, of course,
as the lights and recriminations fade –
one and one and one and one is four –
in this Maida Vale hideaway in the shade.

Some bits are stitched together​
with sun-honeyed harmonies
and fenestrated fragments
of musical mastery –

miserly, mustardy –
under the custody
of polythene dreams,​​
a golden-slumbered tapestry

of rich, interwoven melodies,
snatches, echoes, refrains,
and it carries the weight
(it’s so heavy!)

of where they’ve come from
and where they will go
in the end.

Back outside, we glimpse them through the lens;
four is one and one and one and one.
They walk across the road once more
and then they’re gone.

The Abbess is a pretty nice girl
But she doesn’t have a lot to say.
The Abbess is a pretty nice girl
But all she seems to do is pray.
I want to tell her that I love her a lot
But I gotta drink a bottle of Blue Nun,
The Abbess is a pretty nice girl
One day we’re going to have some fun, oh yeah,
One day we’re going to have some fun.

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Every Song on the Radio Reminds Me of You

Every song on the radio reminds me of you,

I hear Anarchy in the UK and think about the time
you established an anarcho-syndicalist commune and led
a bloody, but ultimately unsuccessful, uprising in Merthyr Tydfil.

Bohemian Rhapsody comes on and I remember
the episodic, integrated, free-flowing work you composed
whilst holidaying in the Czech Republic.

Like A Virgin reminds me of the day
you got your new Virgin Media TiVo box installed
and you touched it for the very first time.

I listen to I Am the Walrus and recall those stupid
bloody Tuesdays when you would sit on a cornflake
in your corporation t-shirt and wait for the van to come.

An Oasis song plays and I think about that wall
you used to have, which was not like any other wall,
the one that used to fill me with wonder and still does today.

Other memories fly to me across the radio waves.
Your strange and wide-ranging CV: a waitress in a cocktail bar,
private dancer, boxer, taxman, joker, thief, lineman for the county.

There was that time you laid your hat and declared it “home”,
and that party we went to with a special atmosphere,
the one when you kissed a girl and then let the dogs out.

It’s no wonder I still think about you;
you and your beautiful, bright, sexy, gypsy,
Betty Davis, brown, green, baby blue eyes.