These You Have Loved

Baker’s boy,

son of a plasterer,

RP plums in mouth,

this voice soothes

like honeyed tea.

 

The wireless is on,

Hilversum, Oslo and Helsinki are

displayed between two dials;

tuning and volume.

This is the sound of Britain,

the country of slippered feet

and knitted waistcoats:

excerpts from operetta

and the music from that advert on

the monochrome telly in the corner.

Radio still trumps TV, just,

just while teenagerdom

hides a couple of months away.

 

In London, Davey Jones has a dress

and makeup in his locker:

your Dad mis-quotes the lyrics

of a song avant la lettre

when Dave turns up on TOTP.

“Is that a boy or a girl?”

This is the sound of Britain;

Glam, fey boys, in spandex

and sequins, singing space songs,

tuning up before the DIY

revolution of three chords or less

of snarling and saliva.

 

Satie’s tinkling drivel

crawls from the cone

hidden behind the woven

front of the radiogram.

Your dad mispronounces

the title as if he thinks

a gymenopédie is

some kind of insect...

This is the sound of Britain,

badly accented French

words because it doesn’t

matter it’s only foreign

and the music isn’t

Elgar is it now, son?

 

Now, while you’re still

hesitating on puberty’s

threshold, with both hands empty,

you seethe at music

by and for dead people.

 

Later, you’ll wish you

could have the radio

back, at least.