The marquee, retrieved from Jago’s shed,
reeks of kerosene and bone, but is intact
and – thank the Lord! – the bunting has survived
another year with the vestry mice;
laid out on the village green
triangles of old sheets and dresses
wait in a happy heap, ready for unwinding.
There’s no ditsy in it, nothing lifestyle,
it’s all fade and mend, the work of many.

Anne has been sitting on a gravestone
with the lichen and inscriptions.
She stands up with an arthritic crack,
joins Todd, who stoops out of his cottage door.
They both look tired. Their hearts aren’t in it.
Is it more difficult this year? says Joe,
as we thread bunting around
the branches of the naked ash,
around the shiny fence that keeps us
newly separated from the stream.

Later, after eating, we’ll sit around the fire
toasting stories of past Feasts like marshmallows,
laughing about that time when our biggest worries
were the car park and the weather forecast.

We’ll chew over soft-edged rumours
that trains will run again in the next month or so,
and how there may be a ferry
to reconnect us, one day.

Tomorrow, we’ll pack up the marquee,
we’ll roll up the bunting,
for next year,
next year –

Yesterday, a helicopter, heavy like a rhino,
hovered over the village
so that windows were shattered
and all the dogs cowered.