There was a time when Gran wore thigh-length boots

and danced till dawn with Mick and Keith.

Smoked weed between her whiskey shots

and slurred the words of Germaine’s famous Eunech.

There was a time when Gran summered in the Hindu Kush

and giggled with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi

Cleansed her thoughts with Tarka dhal and tea

and tried to be the all, that she thought that she might eventually be.

There was a time when Gran waitressed in the Hard Rock Cafe

and breakfast merely meant a cough followed by two fags.

Spent a month in bed with John and Yoko

and dreamt of picnics in Paul and Jane’s white Roller.

There was a time when Gran wrote for Vogue and Elle,

her words whizzing past like molten rifle shells,

bloodying many of the great and good,

while still seducing any left who said they would.

Now there is no time, but just a mist of memories.

Not quite sure of where or why or who she is,

the sounds of some discordant, distant chiming bells

mingle with the shrapnelled thoughts of once-exploded shells.

Soon Paul and Art will ask her for one last dance

And sing her lullabies within The Sound of Silence.