Seventeen: an Experience with Lino

I pulled out a hopeful candidate

But the fake Art Deco just didn’t do it,

Even in sepia tints.

I slipped the album back in the rack

And sighed,

Eyes lowering to the dirty, cracked lino

Of the town centre record shop.

And the lino caught my yearning.

I was craving dusty air through tarnished reeds,

Melancholy found the day before

On a solitary walk,

The broken harmonium

In a forgotten corner

Of a silent country church

Where it whispered in my ear

Like a dying lover,

Speaking, and speaking to me alone.

I paid strict attention to the speakers in the shop.

I tried to like the barking guitar

And the order it gave to dance,

Or, at least, to buy.

But I just took one last longing look at the lino

And left for home.