In July the carnival set up in a three-cornered field

not far from the church. The town was alive.

Visitors came by the busload every day.

Mothers and children sat in the wind

on the long beach while fathers stayed

in the city at work. At weekends the men came

to sit in the pubs along Main Street. We were

only allowed to go to the carnival during the day –

what incredible things must happen there at night!

All I wanted to do was ride on the bumpers,

but I was too young. Boys with shaved heads

steered with one hand, the other holding a girl

who screamed at every head-on collision.

The older boys had blue birds etched in ink

on their hands, the same birds that came

every summer. In late August they gathered

on the telephone lines, preparing to leave,

just like the denim clad boys perched on the wall

across from the arcade. By the end of the month

all were gone. The carnival too. Another

endless, dull winter stretched out ahead of us.