Iron on iron wails torments of agony
while concrete shudders in mindless sympathy.
Age lurks, devoid of memory as youth
like ants, crawl over its history, careless
of its tomorrows. Selling their souls
for a jug of Pimms and a plastic chair
here on the festival terrace; here
hovering over the corruption of water;
the lifeless spoil of Thames water.
The day begins to boil over; the pseudo people
from the afternoon begin to blend. Zebra pants
and green hair on a muscle-bound 20 something.
The cardigan clad floaty skirt, sequins and pink quiff
in a grey-white bob adds glamour to the sockless
suits on sober youths. Chaps in ponytails
and tiny beards begin to outnumber
saris and ethnic hair. Noise levels build
until air bubbles thumbs in the thick
atmospheric-stew, overflows shouting,
shouting voices. Air and water equally corrupt.