STARDUST

Last night I dreamt of Woodstock:

riding in on Matthew's lyrics 

or, perhaps, their time-honoured echo -

an ecstasy of incense and mud

beneath bare feet;

hunger, thirst; sense of belonging

with half a million minds

united in peace and love;

bodies swaying out of time

to Hippie bands, stoned and elated;

golden flecks of stardust

beneath the blue infinity.

An ocean of tents, souls entwined

within canvas on stony ground

of Yasgur's Farm.

Invisible time traveller

from fifty-one years

in the future - here, but

etheric, ghost-like,

trying hard to push through

time's forbidden barrier.

Born too late, yet

desperate to be part

of the legendary Summer of Love,

where there is no hatred, no greed,

nor any Reaper's curse

of grim pandemic...

Oh God! No!!

Paradise is fading fast

as I'm yanked back into the waking hell

of twenty-first century isolation

and my lockdown prison cell.

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