On a lazy Sunday afternoon
a bloom of girls
mellow yellow on the warm green lawn,
weave daisy chains of hope
blow dreams in the wind,
as the boys preen for the gig.
Not a pretty sound,
not the kind the neighbours liked,
a howl of ‘Gloria’ shattering neat gardens
across suburban etiquette
not the Gloria by Vivaldi,
nor any sacred song to an attuned ear,
just a day for a daydream,
in the summertime of ’65.
Still sacred in its way.