It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them. (George Orwell)
An unseasonal sun
fires the little socialist in me.
Just off the train
and staight into the red wine
in the La Concha Bar.
My first time in Letchworth
and such a thirst
for deeper knowledge
in this Garden City.
I’m in Orwell’s footsteps,
no street bears his name,
my brain
strides in his shade,
on his way to a Summer School
and to war in Spain.
I’m keeping that aspidistra flying
in the torment,
scanning the Letchworth Citizen
for any news of the Labour Party
turning left.
I will announce myself
to the girls in the garden,
go red in the afternoon,
sneak into David’s Bookshop
for a preview of the blueprint
of the new dawn.
For now,
this day is dancing
flamenco in the warm skies
of flown illusions.
Let us create
a festival for George
in the prickly heat
of a place
where ideals
lie gathering bluebottles
on a traffic island
while castanets flicker
like precious minutes
spent
in Barcelona.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
Letchworth Garden City
