The Spirit of Paul Weller
for Ralph Dartford
The spirit of Paul Weller
is on my shoulder
one Saturday in '78.
Up the short hill to the record shop,
the treasure trove,
a cornucopia of delights
in plastic and cardboard.
Nice says Paul as I jangle
the carefully saved coins
in my pocket.
Rows of stacked recordings
contain the aspirations of artists
and the dreams of boys.
Multicoloured covers, some pure art,
others photos of snarling or serious
young men who will change the world.
Paul laughs in my ear,
as if he knows the truth.
I laugh at the man with long hair
and the kaftan on the prog rock album.
Your day is done,
Your day is done,
my friend.
My fingers flick through the 45s
as Paul nods or tuts
until one is lifted and exchanged
for coins at the counter.
