Since I’ve rolled over all but a sole stone
(Though two, on technical grounds, are undercover),
I should recall, indeed, the one less known:
Mick Coleridge Taylor, lyrical blues lover.
I played truant at his début in Hyde Park,
When Charlie looked in fact like the real Keats,
When the Hell’s Angels left behind the dark,
When you quoted Shelley on Death’s vain defeats.
Now I see you, armourless, in winter sharp,
Wrapped in a cloak; your aura brighter and larger;
You’re carrying a lantern, blowing a harp:
It’s your sweeping exit on a wild, Arab charger.
I’m pleased to greet you; pain to life is wed.
But love is not in vain, save in one’s head.
Sympathy for Sir Mick
by Michael Peach
23 January 2004




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