One Summer

There were just two of us by Loch LomondWhen the other three had gone home.Adrian said he was tired of eating grassIn his sandwiches in a crumby tent.I never knew why the others went home,But they did, so there we were listeningTo Dylan singing Blowing in the Wind.The radio was hidden in the darkBut the rough-edged voice had found me out –I was re-born that night as a Romantic,A teenaged soft-eyed dreamer beginningTo wonder how to be in a working classWorld where your hopes were handed downLike alms to beggars from men who owned the land.

But here by the loch youth belonged to us,Not to the factory where you were givenA card and told to stamp your soul on it.The night became black and thick with timeAnd life was no longer a postponement.A clock here would be an object, a thingTo glance at, not a master you fawned upon.And how rich were the moments spent makingA fire and watching the flames burn the dark