That’s the way to do it

At the May Fayre,

the years fall away.

The reedy voice of Punch

echoed from childhood

across the village green.

Today’s children

sit enthralled,

as I had sat,

a lifetime ago

when childhood

was a warmer thing.

Still the crocodile,

Judy and the policeman

share a half hours

wonderment

playing with imaginations.

“That’s the way to do it.”

May day

May day

and the days intertwine

in the dance of the year.

May day again

fifty-five years on

and tomorrow brings

the maypole back

to the village green.

Patterns of earlier years emerge

in their seasonal changes,

never quite the same;

ribbons age and fade.

I remember:

weeks of practice,

clean shirts and short trousers,

Mr Faiers at the piano,

a herald announcing the May Queen

I remember

our ‘spiders web’

slowly revealing itself

in green and yellow ribbons.

And our lives

slowly reveal themselves

in their own spiders web

of intertwinings.

May again

It’s May again:

sun streaming in

like maypole ribbons,

and the dance

to Summer begins.

Trees begin their homage

to the gods of green;

blossom, spreading like rabbits

rampant with hormones,

garland the branches.

Summer dresses

escape from wardrobe prisons.

It’s May again:

memories of former days

intertwine in coloured cobwebs

skipping in and out

in plaits of streamers.

Circle ballet,

daisy-chain doh-see-doh weaving,

friends coming and going.

All life is here:

going around,

coming around,

karma in P.E. shoes.

Patterns

Patterns

The beginning of patterns
youths early windings
ribbons of weft
threads that begin indistinctly
unfolding with each
infiltrating skip.

I may hold this anchor
but others spin and twirl
in passing pirouettes
that web their lives with mine.
I have no control of this pattern;
mine is the spasmodic touch
the gravitational pull
which momentarily holds
your orbit before you snake off
to other moons.
Star trek on the village green
before sputnik or satellite
pierces the sky.

There are other patterns at play;
in sounds
which leave no trace
by their transient recreation,
and in shadows that mime
dumb ethereal bodies
prostrate mimics that bend no grass.
When the music calls I will move on
adding my fleeting touch,
blessing or curse,
upon other ribbons.

NB. the little boy in the centre of the photo was ME !