That summer, the fete, ordinarily
held indoors by rain, spilled across lawns
and circled the drooping willow bows
in the drive. Yet even with cloudless skies
one heard low voices tempting fate, as if
nothing could be trusted in the redistribution
of books and toys, and it could all fall flat.
Cakes, of all kinds were laid on plates,
with the odd swiping away of a toddler's
hand, while in the corner of the tent
the temperamental urn was loaded with teabags
and set to puffing wafts of steam.
....
They do things differently here. It looks
roughly the same, the book stall, the cakes,
an urn for tea puffing steam in the corner.
But for reasons best known, they have singers
and a show or two, by local children.
....
Watching a local dance troupe high-kick
a samba around, lead to a somewhat stitled
conversation about sex. Stood as we
were next the judging of scarecrows
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