Fun fair

On Hampstead Heath at seven-forty-five
You'd usually be pressed to find much life
Just the dog walker, cyclist and jogger,
Doing their bit for a fitter society,
That, or getting away from the wife.

Today though, the silence and calm
Has an edge, a potential, a threat
Of noise unfettered, gaudy lights,
Laughs and screams piercing the night
With a basso line of generators' throb

For there, parked up in total silence,
The funfair sits, a brooding presence.
Curtained caravans with not a movement
Chromed trucks and neatly stacked rides
Wait to be metamorphosised

For tomorrow morning the showmen's attention
Will have brought them to life, unfolded them all
Plugged in the current and checked the bulbs
And then for a while, the wildlife and trees
Will seem the strange part of Hampstead Heath


Bench 238