End Of The Sixties Poem by Sally Evans

The decade, departing like sun
streaked over skies with a lustre
at the end of a summer day

London full of lost property,
the trains to Europe bearing
armies of dropouts, bisexual

in flower-covered dress,
those who stayed, scantily
stalking the shops full of paper,

gloss, terylene, candy,
their pastel record players
black plates with grooves worn flat,

media songs transferred to their brains
for ever, until they grow old.
No other decade would do it.

The dark astrologer said: This now
is the new that is going to be then.
It took years to come true.