Fringe Of Woodstock’s Legend

Blissful Ben got lucky last night, didn’t return
from the festival’s New Year’s Eve rendering,
Sasha awoke free from nocturnal fright or ghastly
trauma she delights in describing, waking bright

and bubbly, keen in her recollections; Orlando
charmed again with his singular and honest
observations, a gentle man with an open and
welcoming smile. Chris and Frida were quieter

this morning, still half way back from Sri Lanka
and the delights of Mysore, straight off the plane,
into the deep end of the maelstrom; Grigor,
with his wry Austrian way of uniting the strands

of idiomatic Australian in miscomprehension,
a whole new way of communicating, had a
memorable evening – standing taller than all
but a pair of the wash of crazies crowding

the lanes between bright, tribal stalls, making
a thunderous recitation of humorous good sense.
Craig drove us there and back again, a third time
veteran of the festival, while Anita and I as the

ingénues were conceptually wide-eyed. Asked
would I go to Woodford again – there is nothing
but fine-tuned feelings of good-will and gladness,
and memories resurgent of being 21 again, immersed
in the living fringe of Woodstock’s Legend.
© I.D. Carswell 2007