So we slot the handle into the hexagonal socket
and crank it: one revolution,
and a sour microtonal calliope dirge begins,
like the Emmerdale theme played backwards
through a bullhorn. Flaccid tents
belly out and fill, struts stiffening under canvas;
the stink of beef on hotplates,
the plunging splash of longdrops,
Bands come last,
roadies spitting 'two, two,'
into reverb-heavy trumpet mics,
pennants snapping in a westerly wind,
the crunch of beer cans under wellies,
the distant crowds like frogspawn.