HOPE

And there we were in the Gaumont Cinema.

An adult was buying our tickets in the medieval hall

below tasselled halberds;

I didn’t yet know

the beams and weapons were all kitsch:

it was opulent and enticing,

the anteroom to paradise.

Paradise itself was an auditorium

where we dribbled our chocolate ice creams

waiting for the programme to begin.

But it was a starkly lit paradise

where starched usherettes walked backwards

with practised step.

We couldn’t wait for the lights to dim.

‘What are we seeing? ’ I whispered.

‘The Thief of Baghdad. ’

Then the heavy candelabra darkened slowly.

If only that moment would never end!

If only we’d be biting the last chocolate and cream

from the stick as the rheostat

smoothly ghosted the electric candles

for ever and ever and ever!

The Certificate of the Board of Censors

lit the screen as a glow of curtains

peeled away like onion skins.

One lure after another hooked our eyes:

the Pathé News,

the cartoon,

the B movie,

the interval with its second ice cream.

Again the rheostat created fading magic,

dilating our irises.

A mechanical flying horse

plunged from the sky

in Technicolor Baghdad

against an effluvium of cigarette smoke;

a boy we’d all have liked to be

was chased through teeming souks

as a girl behind us (tickled, we thought) let out a yell.

Hope led us from scene to scene

up to the last zooming END.

HOPELESS.

We walked into a black-and-white street.