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?