It’s a long winding road
from Liverpool to here,
from the strict mores and rules
of an old grammar school,
to sagging off with your mate
in a mossy cemetery
where dead headstones hid
one who sang out her name,
who sank through your skin,
later coming out perfect
and breathing again, her face
back again in a jar by the door,
impossibly sad and beautiful.
It’s a long winding road
from Beatling to here,
fifty odd years gone
yet somehow not quite,
the zing of the singing
captured, time capsuled,
young forever,
played again and again
in a psychedelic bubble
where it never ever rains.
Where an 82 year old man
still picks up his bass,
paints a smile on his face
and replays the soundtrack
to everyone’s days.