Tonight's Poet Corner: The Festival

The Festival
by Belinda Roddie

I didn't trust the man
playing the harmonica, but
when she played fiddle, my heart
danced better than Fred Astaire.
So I ignored the toxic bleating
and listened to the sweet instead.

When she was done, she bought
me a mead, and we drank
together near the setting sun.
The glassblowers let their
grails cool under starlight.

Anything to eat? No,
thank you, I replied, biting
my tongue before I added that
my hunger had been sated
by the pretty fiddler's eyes.



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