24 June 2016
Sorry. You’ve been let down, beautiful swaying youth.
Your Glastonbury’s now a swansong to Europe.
The setting sun mocks hope and horizons while
desperate flags pirouette in festival death throes.
That guitar solo spins towards the tor,
And is swallowed by time.
Look back, it’s the only way to look.
Don’t talk of your future: it’s been taken away.
We’re an island again,
Drifting in meaningless isolation,
prejudiced, red with boils, bad beer and resentment.