HARD RAIN POURS

Accusations rain down hard in New York,
A song and dance man skips through smoke and fire.
Memory’s faded fifty six years on,
Tambourines clash, rolling stone gathers moss.
Approach Eden’s gate, boots no longer fit,
Perhaps the highway now leads on to hell.
Question marks abound, truth told or liar,
From the lost days at the Chelsea Hotel.
Whither now poet from Minnesota?
Time tangles, water muddies, luck runs out.
Apologists fill up their pens with ink,
Lexicologists trawl through every verse,
Searching for clues, or havens to shelter
From storms, hurricanes, perhaps even worse.

Harry Rogers, Y Cwtch, 17th August 2021