Down's boy at the folk festival

stands,

sighs again,

walks down the street

saying ‘Hello!’ to new people;

bearded drunks, dancing girls, singers

with eyes in the clouds, bellies of beer and boots in the gutter;

smiles as if the whole turning world needs a twinkle

and puts his arm round those who seem slumped or crumpled,

carrying their heavy fate or load.

He walks for maybe half a mile,

working the line, stars

for eyes, teeth

for smiles, sits;

sighs.