Sunday, 3 April 2016

Spring Fair

Dear Reader,

                                                                A farmyard with nothing much happening

If by chance you don't listen to The Archers, it is a radio soap that started in l95l and was billed as "an everyday story of country folk", giving out advice on farming matters to help farmers after the war,  but which is now known as a "contemporary drama in a rural setting".  The story line lately has been controversial, telling us about one of the female characters being abused by her husband.  I don't particularly like the story and hope it is all resolved very soon, but that is not the point I wanted to make.  A journalist, Libby Purves, wrote in a newspaper article last week that lots of people have given up listening to The Archers because it is so boring.  "Interminable pub chat, faux-yokel accents, village hall repairs and dairy emergencies" are a few of the things she listed that made the programme so dull.

But, for myself, I like the programme to be dull and predictable, where nothing much happens.  Ambridge is a safe haven in my head, listening to David moaning on about his cows or that it has or hasn't rained lately, is just what I like to hear when peeling the potatoes for supper.  I don't want excitement in Ambridge, I want soothing and the reassurance that all is well with the world.  Philip Larkin once said: "most of the time to most people, nothing much happens".  Nothing much happening is just how I like it and if I want excitement, which I don't, I could listen to the news.


Spring Fair

The young girl
and her mother, holding hands,
hurry down the hill
where the bright lights beckon,
see the big dippers hurtling,
painted horses swirling, yellow
swing boats diving, swooping,
smell the grease and diesel
hear the loud beat of music,
the children's screams.

Young men of the fair,
long-haired, dark, a little wild,
eye the girls with bright,
knowing looks.
The air is full of restlessness, of quickening,
an urgency to act
before the end of the night,
when morning light will move them on.  

Dusk falls, the young girl drops her mother's hand,
stirred by the primal desire of early spring.
Running silently she disappears into the night, eager
to share what ancient fires of life can bring.


Very best wishes, Patricia                                                               

1 comment:

Emma Deguara said...

My mother was a cheeky lass! I love this little glimpse into her life when she was young. xxx