In 1975 the man moved
The Windsor Free
Festival to Watchfield.
Watchfield? Where the fuck?
Still, we thought we’d go,
Terence and Colin and I,
And some Welsh guy we’d
Discovered during the night,
Skywatching on Cradle Hill.
We idled with the other freaks,
Under a sun that was Californian,
Drifted past spice islands
Scented with patchouli
And sandalwood, joss-sticks
And sweet hash.
The irritating bluebottle of bad music
Followed us wherever we went. Then:
A long, drawn out, squeal cut through it,
My name held on a dotted breve
Somewhere above the C above middle C.
And suddenly my arms were full of Mary,
Her arms around my neck, her legs
Around my waist, her smiling mouth
So close to mine, our faces hidden
Behind the penumbra of her long curly
Hippie hair, her brown eyes sparkling.
Then: She kissed me.
I still have the badge.