Festival

Old friends meet loudly, hug and call each other “man”
their heads on other days would turn to Dave or James or Tim
rich suburbanites who freely mix with New Age scruffs
safe in the folds of music, smoke and pricey beer.

They lie on an acre’s nest of tiny dome-shaped multi-coloured tents,
that glimmer like torch-lit tics and smell of sweat and muddy grass
all dressed in tie-dyed, old, damp, outrageous clothes
until Monday comes once more, the suit, the tie, the tube.

In feathery drizzle, they stretch last nights’ stiff necks, backs and legs
and aimless, stroll with skinny dogs who sniff for discarded burger scraps
before the music calls, the thudding bass, screeching riffs and angry drawl
the Eloi turn and amble to this hypnotic churning noise.

Then demure young girls sensually writhe and show their breasts
And hope they won’t appear on someone’s MySpace page
Some henge-like stare, some sway, some jig with arms aloft
It’s festival man, you have to be here, come one come all

© Graham Sherwood 2008