Published in Ariadne’s Thread 8
I open a biography in Barnardos
of the band I lived and died for
three decades ago
and out falls a photograph-cum-bookmark,
I bend to grasp in my fingers
a youth of nineteen no more
in a passenger seat
of what looks like a Ford Capri,
dressed in adulation of Morrissey,
hair side-shaved and pouting
on top like a fountain in Rome.
He gazes uneasily through the windscreen,
a still-life encomium
with I-told-you-so eyes.
So where are you now, ‘William’,
once held fast in time and place
between these pages,
all surety yours,
are you framed
in the passenger seat still?