For three days beforehand, men laid out acres of canvas,
dumped and hauled masts to an upright stance,
reaved ropes through pulleys and strained
marquees into existence. The Fair arrived
and built waltzers and roundabouts,
shooting galleries and carded dartboards.
Security men and dogs patrolled all through the night
along the post and wire boundaries and through the tents
for the first time in eleven years; and still
five eggs disappeared (the secretary
rather suspected the German Shepherd.)
Saturday was dark and squally. At nine
pulleys were squeaking mournfully and the canvas
beating up and down like bellows
under an uncertain wind. The trestles
looked just a little empty if you knew
the fullness of other years. Nine thirty
closure for judging: shuffling entries
to other classes to use up the prizes.
And the wind fell, and the rain lashed down.
The doorways sprouted yellow straw
and the dogs barked in frustration
at small wet toughs with nothing to do
but stand enticingly near. Inside,
persistent leaks puddled washable ink notices
into blue dribbles on the tables.
The fairground calliope wheezed unheeded
through all the old tunes, the ticket booths
forlorn in the park avenues were tenanted
by old men reading newspapers or talking
of last year and the year before, when it wasn’t
at all like this but crowded with sunshine.
Today, only Punch and Judy (indoors),
and the Beauty Contest, took much money.
A display by wet police dogs drew no more
than sarcastic cheers, and the gate receipts,
they say, are down by half on last year’s.
Everyone went home early. There was no dance,
and today the soaked tents came down
and were packed. They won’t be back.