Across a yard, through the
back alleys of Slater Street,
they stood, stark still, stark naked
- silent in a dim cellar.
Spears held high, shields thrust forward,
challenging all comers.
Part hidden in the swathes
of jungle growth, nondescript creatures
peeked as if from chinks
in new washed net curtains.
Above the alcohol free bar,
crammed straw half hid
the string of lights
borrowed from a Christmas tree.
Cliff and Billy Fury throbbed from the jukebox.
Strobes of green and pink threw themselves
across the pitch-dark tables.
We never did discover
the connection of nine foot
Zulu warriors and Corinth;
but then we were only fifteen,
and our mothers thought we were
quietly watching films at the Astoria.
By Norma E Jones