A goat, a box and a jelly-fish.

I want to tell you about the poem, but that means I have to tell you about the bar, the field, the goats, the red box, the jelly-fish and the church. And to get there I have to tell you first about the dream.

 

It didn’t make a lot of sense though it certainly took place in Hampstead. There was a king and getting to see him was a pain in the arse, you had to follow tiring and dusty protocol, submit to the whims of some jumped up fool in a suit and kowtow to privilege. I gave up, caught the intermediary staring up someone’s skirt, gave out and left. 

 

I walked up the hill to a view over distant hills and valleys, that don’t exist in Hampstead today. Maybe they did once. There was probably sea.

 

Then I woke.

 

I read for a little in the early morning sun rise, then dipped into the pond, dried, went inside and fed the cats.

 

Now I can tell you about the church.

 

The stage is in the field behind the church.

 

The field is full of people, games – wooden ones, home-made ones. One is built on the frame of an old bicycle and the breaks on the handlebars operate two racing cars, running on two aligned slots where the break cables run. Scaletrix, old school. The filed is also full of stalls selling food, there’s a roundabout too, and music.

 

On one side, in front of a clumsily built goat pen, a stage has been set, a lighting rig rigged and in the centre of the stage a red box. A cabinet in fact. Tall enough, wide enough to hold a man. Maybe two. Just.

 

How long has he been there?

 

I didn’t see him enter though I was there before that.

 

Anyway, when the show was done I walked down to the church. Jelly fish lanterns lighting a part of the way, past the old wash house and down to the post office, which tonight for a few nights only is a café. They serve breakfast early for those leaving the festival late. 

 

I left at midnight. 

 

Early.

 

There are steps at the side of the church and here is the bar.

 

Family is at the bar waiting. 

 

We agree the show was excellent, we order wine and beer. Raise our glass and there is the poem.

 

A small paper box in the very corner of the counter, half hidden by the poles that hold the awning overhead.

 

A hint of paper, peeking from a slit, reminiscent of a paper-handkerchief box in a suburban sitting room, or a table serviette dispenser in a Spanish restaurant.

 

A written invite to pull one out and tear it off, leaving the next for the next.

 

I pull. I tear.

 

Passer la serpillière, c’est pas 

pareil que

passer l’éponge

- Surtout autour d’u verre.