November ‘63

So many taken in,
this vibrant, fresh-face start again.
All bollocks though: can’t get
no satisfaction asking for
the moon. The record spins,
three minute warning, rock ‘n’ roll.
Next thing it’s wild frontier.
This can’t be happening,
repeating endlessly
in black and white, kid flick
and comic book, real bullet holes,
beneath a western sky.
Each slow-mo shot’s a single fixed
heartbeat, long since flat-line.
Soon Johnson’s swearing in,
the widow’s blood-soaked dress
beyond satire. With Oswald dead,
youth, disenchanted, turns
away, the sixties blowing in
the wind, the future, breath-
less, hanging by a thread.

Peter Branson is a traditional-style singer, poet and songwriter who lives in South Cheshire UK. His poetry has been published by journals in Britain, the USA, Canada, Ireland, Australasia and South Africa, His latest book, Red Hill, Selected Poems, 2000-2012, published by Lapwing, Ireland, came out in May 2013 and is available from ISBN 978-1-909252-37-0. Read other articles by Peter, or visit Peter's website.