But it’s so lovely here:
the hills that roll down to the river,
woods bedecked with lanterns,
yurts for mindfulness, the vegan carts,
the wildest meats this side of Yeovil.
And of course the glamping families:
not a chav in sight, no red-slashed crosses,
rabid Leavers from across the bay –
nor one black face unless you count the kora players
in from WOMAD yesterday.
Instead the earthy MILFS
with nut-brown feet and daughters
rifling through the vintage stalls in search of skirts
that say they would have rolled in Yasgur’s mud
had they been born in 1951.
We’re all too busy pinning flowers to our tousled hair
to listen to the lonely novelist who drifts among the trees
with shoulder bag and Sharpie pen
but who will spend more on Halloumi wraps
than he can ever hope to make by being here.
What right has he pronouncing on these boutique hippie kids,
this man forever longing to belong?
Why always separate himself and find the flaw,
why point to self-delusion and delude himself
he has some vantage point from nowhere?
He has no zany shirt, nor quirky feathered hat,
he’ll never be the weathered Trustafarian
in mud-flecked boots with wife of 34
who danced all night to raucous bluegrass songs
beneath the darting stars.
Still he’s as privileged as every other tosser here:
why can’t he just be grateful we are gathered in this paradise
to celebrate the written word and save the day –
one reading at a time –
from Trump and from Theresa May?