It was a beautiful summers day.
Way back in may.
1990s.
Me,Gaz, & don.
All equipped with materials.
For building spliffs.
We are in Rochester.
A town in medway.
At the back of Charles dickens.
House .
Where Charles did most of his writings.
Sat on wooden benches.
Onlooking the two ponds full of beautifully coloured fish.
A small bridge mounted in the middle of the ponds.
Flowers, pink blue orange red, yellow.
Climb the house.
And cover the garden.
We skin up.
Sit back .
Glaring at dickens writing house.
Soon were stoned.
So head of to Rochester castle.
Through the high st .
Eyes red as can be.
The castle .
Tall and historic.
To the left.
A hanging post.
Where people used to be hung.
We enter the castle grounds.
Lay on the grass.
As we smoke more of it.
To our right .
Rochester cathedral.
Straight ahead of us.
The river medway.
There has always been something magical.
Mystical.
Gothical.
About Rochester .
With its cobbled stone walk ways.
Magnificent buildings.
Just a lovely town .
Not just to get stoned in.
But by its self.
Rochester has something tranquil about it.
We lay stoned absorbing all the beauty.
Those days .
When we were 16.
ARE LONG .
And gone.
But my heart.
Will never let it go.
