The driver of a leathery 

Clapped out Hillman Hunter

Reeking of Capstan full strength 

And Lifebuoy soap

Dropped me off outside Devizes.

 

Rain came

I prised open a door to escape

Unrolling my doss bag 

On a scout hut floor.

 

I crept out early while the village slept

Washing down Kendal Mint Cake 

With a pint of gold top

Pirated from some bugger’s door.

 

A postman’s Pashley rested 

Neglected against a wall, 

I liberated the bike and 

Rattled down deserted lanes

To the off map, 

Small time festival.

 

No big deal. 

Freaks knocking up a pyramid.

Blowin' dope, dropping acid, 

Chillin’ out.

 

“Outta sight.”

 

There would be music,

It was claimed,

From big name bands 

‘Yet to be arranged.'

 

I lurked behind a bush 

Savouring an alluring tableau.

Women bathing naked in a lake – 

You don’t get that in Ponders End.

 

Men were prancing about there too 

But love sticks waving tall and free

And open air scrotes?

Never did a thing for me.

 

A red haired spectral cwtched me, 

She was up from Ebbw Vale 

Whispering I was beautiful, 

So were mosquitoes and hover flies too.

 

She cooked organic white bean chilli

Washed down with dandelion tea

She said was laced with L.S.D. 

 

I gulped it greedily 

But the acid did not work on me.

 

Instead I sat for hours

Staring into camp fire flames

Marvelling at colours that had not existed

And learning an unrepeatable

Unspeakable truth about 'reality'.

 

My out of body soul, 

Roaming the astral sphere 

Embraced a ‘weekend’ hippy, 

Barry from Chipping Norton.

He vanished - primal screaming 

Through a field of borage 

Till swallowed by the darkness 

Beyond the trees.

 

My festival romance...

A tripping premmie,  

Moonchild, from Rugby. 

We wore necklets of daisies she made,

And zipped our sleeping bags 

Into a double - laying together…

Strictly platonically.

 

A fond remembered week,

Incense and innocence.

 

I guess Moonchild outgrew 

Gandalf  and patchouli, 

Magick and the Maharaji,

Turning into a grown up female stranger.

 

A parish councillor? 

Lay preacher at a Minster?

Madam Mayor?

A female prelate? 

Probably a magistrate.

 

Nowadays, Glasto is corporate hospitality, 

Millionaires fawning over billionaires,

Tacky popsters and D list ‘douche bags extraordinaire’.

 

Hovering above the tent-city 

In my brand new Cessna chopper

My co-pilot pointed out 

The 'Free Love' pennant

Waving tall and proud 

Above the roof of my yurt, 

Shrine-white pristine,

Pride of place, centre ground,

Of the hi-security ring fenced 

V.I.P compound.

 

As the copter blades spun 

I attached my real hair

Pony-tail extension,

Sucked in my gut to buckle up 

My brand new shrink-wrapped

Designer distressed jeans.

 

Waiting my moment

To headline the show.