It is 1972
and we are sitting in the Hyde Park Picture House
watching a re-run of Easy Rider.
Gas-mantles flicker with quiet poppings
and smoke hangs around our head in rings
as we eat ice-cream from tubs.
I am resplendent in cheese-cloth shirt and purple loons
[you can Google them]
and my girlfriend wears a suede jacket with cowboy fringing.
We consider ourselves to be ineffably cool
unable to see just how young we are
as we passively breathe in the counter-culture.
Only afterwards blinking in the afternoon sunshine
do we realise how deeply and irretrievably
are we stoned.
©James Nash 2014