Small Town Fair

Firecrackers at four on the dot;
the car with the roof-top loudspeaker
has shouted its last.
Flamenco dresses in all sizes,
from miniature to marquee, mingle.
A road sign advises
out of town parking for your own
convenience: but comfort is
quite simply unknown
- flag-cracking sun being what it is.
Calliope music and screaming from
carousels show the lit fuse is
not just attached to pyrotechnics.

It's feria-time "en el pueblo":
matrons dance with mechanics,
bankers with bargirls; aguardiente-fuelled
siesta time is at seven, when the gambas come out
pink-eyed and red skinned. Fooled
by the absence of Andalusians in the street,
they go home and lie wakeful 'til dawn
while the party's rhythm is carried by stamping feet.

Footnote;
*Gambas = prawns, but it refers to the British with their sun-burned skin.