Jason and the Argonauts .
The Brides of Dracula.
In the picturehouse on Sunday,
with our lucky bags and ticket stubs
we sat in the ranks of the hypnotised.
Those who believed in the divine
transfiguration of false idols.
All of us close together in a dark hush,
lulled by the first arpeggios
of a menacing theme. The projector beam
like light from a beacon.
The scalloped curtain rising up
or parting to reveal a cinematic vista:
Piccadilly and all its neon.
Tumbleweed rolling in tufts
down a lonely main street.