This poem was written exclusively for the Library of Aethers radio show on Ship Full of Bombs: the Thames Delta independent radio station.
The grass of the Library Gardens is
warm and springy underfoot,
the park is pregnant with
drunk-walking toddlers and
the first MC steps to the stage.
The bursting fizz-scack of an opened cider can,
as the musician tunes up.
Children beg for paper bags of fudge
that parents will find,
greasy and translucent in a kagoule pocket
in three months' time.
There is the hiss and pop of sausages on a grill,
burger buns and cups of tea,
a queue for ice creams, and sugar on the breeze.
A man in a suit with a
flowerpot on his head dances,
clutching a boom box;
confusing children and
Music fills the air; people wander,
sit on rugs,
and hardcore folkers stand with hands on hips
with pewter tankards swinging from their belts.
Then, it's Sunday,
the punters have taken their sunkissed faces home
and refreshed overnight, ready to
sweep down the hill to the Old Town.
More folk-loving folk, and there's chips,
seagulls eating chips,
buggy wheels smashing over chips,
poets and fiddle players queuing for chips,
chips and cockles,
cider and clogs,
shanties and blues,
a procession and booze,
People fall in love with a new style,
there's noise and chatter, and all the while
there's dropped cornets,
a man dressed as a giant baby
but it's ok, it's ok,
on this day of the year it's ok.
And the Sunday evening rolls around,
and the tin-rattlers stop making their sound;
we vow to buy more records,
and not eat so many chips,
and not drink so much beer,
but we have a list as long as our arms of
new music to investigate,
and new pages to like on Facebook,
and it's only a matter of days before
we dust down our guitars or
the folk is instilled in us all,
in our hearts and ears and
in our chippy tummies.
Until next year.