Saturday afternoon in Wiltshire’s winter,

above me posters of Beatles, Stones, the Yardbirds,

a calendar ticking off the days to term’s end,

a photo of my hero Boris Pasternak on Zhivago’s cover.

Norwegian Wood turning on the record player.

A disarray of newspapers lay on the classroom table.

We glanced at the headlines, each day’s news worse,

but an excuse to leave our O-level strewn desks.

The front pages were splattered with grim photos,

print as black and smudged as the deeds they related.

Brady and Hindley, the names became familiar.

16 Wardle Brook Avenue, a run-of-the-mill address,

the burrow of evil plans and deeds, cruelty beyond measure.

Small children terrified and tortured, buried on the Moors.

Man and woman lost in addiction to depraved brutality.

A nausea pervaded the school room, our youth sullied by horror

at the suffering humans could inflict on childhood innocence.

The lyrics spinning round told another story of betrayal,

Lennon’s adultery, an easy seduction in a mountain room,

Shankar’s sitar adding a spicy aura to the Mersey four.

The song forever merges with sickening scenes of desolate moorland,

images of a year: the Kray brothers’ arrest, Ronnie Biggs’ escape,

London’s funeral procession as Churchill is buried,

anxious teenagers emerging from covert showings of The War Game at the local fleapit,

that year, the year our girlish giggles were silenced.