by davidchrzanowski

Published by Forward Poetry (2014).

Tents of the Wild West battered by screams
reminiscent of a drug-fuelled regime.
Rum stains blood, as pirates sail ships
over miles of green hills,
dancing girls and Ferris wheels.
70’s roller discos and lounge jazz kids
groove to the sound of shadows,
in the evening shade of portaloos.
The sound of trumpets smoothly spread
over dusk air tempered with hard-steel glares.
And when the rain fell, breaking our summer hearts,
we huddled in droves under shared canvas,
until the sound of brass sparks us back to life.
A taste of German cuisine, and a morning cider,
as we gather in front of stages,
until the festival ends, and the new week calls us home.