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.
