The fair was in the centre of the racecourse
and every Easter we’d beg our parents for pounds
while Granddad clambered to stand on the back of the 4×4
and Granny passed around salmon and cucumber sandwiches,
sausage rolls, cups of tea, and packs of ready salted crisps.
Some years we would squirm away from sun-cream and hats,
while other were spent huddled beneath umbrellas,
or listening to the rain hammer on the roof and windows
while the horses continued to gallop past the windscreen,
mud splattered and steaming.
You and I
counted down the races one by one,
until the vested interests of family friends had run their laps
and someone was free to wander away from the track
to the spinning swings, and the carousels and hook-a-duck
where we laughed and screeched and groaned when we lost.
Now I am older the fair seems smaller
and we do not beg for pound or wander down the bank towards it.
But it’s there
in the distance,
glinting and burnished like a penny in a puddle,
while I eat salmon and cucumber sandwiches in the back of a pickup
and my Grandfather cheers from the flatbed
roaring his runners home.
Not far from where my parents live is Eyton Racecourse and every year they hold point-to-points (an amateur steeplechase) and it’s a family tradition to go each year to one of the Easter meets.
When my sister and I were younger, all we wanted was to go to the fair. It was our favourite part of going to the point-to-point. Now we’re older we don’t go to the fair and we’re more interested in the actual racing.
Hopefully there’s enough about the fair in this to meet tonight’s Poetic’s Prompt from the dVerse Poets Pub!