Cymbals and bees, descending clashing, music discordant,
Mixed with hot air and blue skies,
Bird song in a trough of summer;
White tents, blue and red tents, yellow tents,
Striped tents, full of bees and cymbals,
Heat, mud lots of mud, it flushed out the weaklings
It rolls over us in brown slime,
We take no notice we are veterans of slime
We are veterans of heat,
We are veterans of noise,
Of the rising hum of bees,
We are the veterans of Glastonbury.
We watch each other in humble regard,
We work in humble teams, avoiding the bees,
We put up and take down,
We stretch our imagination
To believe that a year has not passed
That time will be endless
Not even Glastonbury is endless.
Nothing is.

Caroline Baldock © 2017