strange days indeed, this vibrant hillside bazaar
a fiddle, wooden drum and scratched guitar
robes flowing, grey thinning hair
pilgrims like starlings flocking there
both having nowhere else to fly
milk Arthur’s airy-fairy legend dry
aged hippies, yippies living out their youth
busk, juggle, beg in search of a truth
vegan joss and nicotine fritter away each day
tomorrow’s woes never dawn there anyway
a broken ruined abbey, lying desolate
slumbers quietly beyond a turnstile gate
the ghosts of monks, haunt the lay-lined earth
ancient carbon footprints that watermark the turf
*
© Graham Sherwood 09/21
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 