May Fair

Below the whirling riders
Upturned faces redden in the dusk.
Metallic music throbs, diesel fumes
Drift in front of the facades
And the town shakes tipsily, the shops
Pushed back each side of the streets
Like the furniture at a party. 

Jerome Betts

If you have any comments on this poem,  Jerome Betts would be pleased to hear from you.