POEM - BERROW FLOWER SHOW

I'm fairly sure that this was the first poem I wrote. I was about 18 years. I still like it. Those of you who have a copy of my book NOT HEAVY ENOUGH TO WIN A PRIZE? will find, in the 'blue pages' more about this place that occupied my heart when I was a child.


The flapping, fluttering white marquee,
Hired for the day from Kings of Bristol,
Holds a chattering, flattering crowd
All freshly washed and starched and ironed.
And the sweet, sweet smell of stampled grass.
Linen-clothed tables bear their burdens
Of carrots and turnips, potatoes, tomatoes
And every flower and fruit that grows.

The centre of attention is the marrow;
Plump, contented, smug it lies
Secure and safe in a wicker basket
That is painted gold and lined with silk.
A red-faced man, the happy father,
Smart and hot in his best blue worsted,
Smiles and nods at his friendly rivals
Who peer and point and wish they had a dungheap of their own.

Beanbags fly and tin-cans fall
And the Wheel of Fortune goes spinning around.
A dusky lady, late of Weston Pier,
Swings her ear-rings and plays Patience.
Careering cannonballs bump towards the boxwood skittles
And the wriggling piglet squeals hysterically.
Beneath a yellow, yawning, awning the Vicar grasps his halo
Throws and wins a china shepherdess.

Beaming and benevolent, the Bishop gaiters past the stalls,
Stops to buy a pin-cushion and to pass the time of day,
Nibbles at a Morgan Sweet and still retains his dignity.
Congratulates the Vicar who mumbles modestly
And speaks hopefully of a new steeple.
And a little boy watches a patch
Of slightly flattened, steaming grass
And absent-mindedly adjusts his trousers.