after Philip Larkin

 

Never again such crowds

shouldering such exultation,

no more the sea lion choir

hauled up on the stands.

The stadia and arenas

silent like grief,

the sun quenched in remembrance 

of a million flowering hands.

 

And shutters on the High Street

tight against the abyss,

the weekend staff furloughed,

the checkout bleepers schtum.

The hungover pubs

all crying in cellars,

chairs perched on tables,

the soughing pop tunes mum.

 

The countryside neglected,

woolly sheep dishevelled,

salad crops rotting,

roadside refuse spreading.

Holiday homes sit sulking

and sullen ghosts of bridegrooms

gather in village churchyards

to mourn abandoned weddings.

 

Never again such jollity,

such weaving around the maypoles.

The festival sound-systems brooding,

the fairground rides in rust.

The gardens kept immaculate

to no chink of teacups.

No more hugs and kisses.

Never again such trust.