The Youth:
A child held aloft. Sun dried fields to make a man inspired. The eyes you meet, the faces to greet, feel friendly with a child around.
How touching a day can be when the young fill it so freely. A mini Disney, but with beer tents and chemical latrines. Franchise food tents and old school acts still owed a few good deeds.
No fools can play the children without a revolution. Good times shared, halcyon days remembered. A ticketed alternative lifestyle. Hexalamp homewear endured for two nights only. The Le Creuset stays at home.
Your children are the best thing about you. They think quicker and dress better. Be sure to attend their upbringing. Stand and applaud their sports days, their school plays. Good times to be shared, halcyon days to be remembered.
Yet so few words between the two who bore them. The gap in a gentle embrace, a caress of one to no other. Four arms that never locked, to hang loose like chains. Limp with refrain, limbs that lacked strength from the start. Loveless grips that cannot choke an urge to evade.
So few parents to so many children. A man without a son who cares for youth still nurtures. A mother can attend another child’s event. So little encouragement, no sign of a close and a permanent bond. Present when needed, listening when the young wish to be heard.
A painful day, the bags packed and rolled away. Stamina turned dry to end a holiday before the plane. Money on the Monday, still busy earning a life. Pushing cards to make a name father never had. Old fools paying debts, connections frosted to the core. Chances lost. Good times never shared, halcyon days never lived to be remembered.
Something by Way of an Apology:
To you, who said hello that Saturday, as we stood to see Bon Iver. You told me you’d seen him before, not so long ago. We huddled nearer as the crowd filled, beaming as the first chords began. Our shoulders pressed and we gently touched hands. The Big Top rose above us; a dark and deepening blue. It was dusk after a sunny day; your ruddy cheeks had turned to the red of your lips. Your Navy vest clung from bosom to hip, your jeans fell over worn and muddy shoes.
‘I’ve seen him twice. He’s amazing. Have you seen him before?’
‘No never, but I’ve been meaning to.’
‘This is the first time you’ve seen him?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’re gonna love it.’
It surprised me you could be so certain when you knew me so little. But as the first strings sung you were absolutely right. My eyes hung open and I grinned from the middle of ‘For Emma, Forever Ago.’
The stage was yellow lit and the sound swelled. He sang his songs to everyone, we who counted among them. I looked to your profile, staring from behind long dark hair. The music stirred our passions deeply. I to you and you to him. I to him and you to me. We all swayed when Bon Iver played and our loves were never stronger.
Perhaps it’s the drugs or the industry ties. Still, it feels like a blessing. A hymn that escapes the lying men, the cold women, the fame, the tease. We pushed closer, the songs grew louder. Weak at the knees while hoping for more. I felt a kindness and compassion I cannot forget. A reminder of what we choose not to believe. People play tricks, since The Prince they smile to deceive. We’re here to decide the Mercury Prize, the rest is a meaningless din.
Not true said I, said you. We came for love and we must pursue. ‘Thanks for coming down, it means a lot.’ A generous gift but one so true. That tent would empty soon, a room for the dingy deaths of young hopefuls and elderly goons. But at that place and at that hour, stood beside you, I saw hundreds light up as I did too. ‘Sky is womb and she’s the moon.’
We sang ‘What might have been lost’ together, then left a different way. We never knew each others names. I am sorry for that, after all we’d been through. Life is too short to miss out on sweet things. It is a lesson I’m learning and something I shall stick to.
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