I was living in a surreal dream of innocence,
looking to the future with wonderment,
wondering where we were going.
You a student, me working in Muswell Hill.
I wore dresses that touched the ground,
long skirts made from curtain fabric,
topped with that long, wine, velvet hooded cape
and my long hair that blew in the wind.
I felt we were living in a past romantic age.
We listened to progressive rock music in darkened rooms
filled with the scent of burning incense and candles for light,
drinking cider because it was cheap,
talking all night of how we would change the world.
We went to concerts and pubs to see our favourite bands.
You, with your King Charles hair and your flared Levi jeans
fitting tightly over those long slender legs.
You with your cheeky smile and gentle eyes.
Remember how we talked in anticipation of our future,
how we planned the life we imagined we would have together
on those walks in Waterlow Park on Highgate Hill,
and our Sunday afternoons on Hampstead Heath.
How we enjoyed having a drink in the Flask
on balmy summer evenings.
The times we would go to Kensington Market in the High Road
or take a walk down the Kings Road
with a feeling that we ruled the world.
What happened to the dreams,
the cottage somewhere in the country,
the perfect life; our youth?
It wasn’t quite how we’d imagined,
with our unrealistic visions of what would be.
But hey; we didn’t do too bad did we?