A poem by Alan Whitfield: Festive May


A poem by Alan Whitfield

Festive May

With cans turned on
alone I stand in the amphitheatre
Close to a power
I don’t understand.
Inclusion in something
I may once have walked by.

Eyes glued on the marks
spine tingling peaks of power.
A short burst.
Still quenching my new thirst.
Like a new life
to be so close.
Making you walk
inches higher than most
for the priceless projection delivered.

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