The Guns Of Navarone Poem by Jerry Pike

The Guns Of Navarone,
never sounded so good,
blamming off walls,
cutting up that sacred ground,
beneath our tiring feet.
12.15 and the Woodcutters arms, Acton W3,
loosened its grip on those alcohol dosed inmates
scaring their way into fresh air, slab by humid slab.

The Skatalites never knew we cared,
recreating their 1964 instrumental energy,
outside a clubbers reunion.
So one more shuffle for old time,
and winding the Renaults windows flat,
the cd sparked up,
pushing plastic surface noise out into
a crowded family night,
overdubbed by opening trumpets
of a West London ska hit,
that carried the swing, way back.
Three danced, one watched,
as we scooped our feet,
beneath musical memories and
oozed them, through a hot tarmac display,
that brought whoops from,
those who’d never seen a shuffling face off,
dropped hankie to trilby hat.

And I promised to film it, but,
some dancers looked better thin.