Spiderman's riding round on a bicycle.
Old men have retired from the boules
pitch, replaced by one young man
proclaiming The End Is Nigh with
black on white bilboard.
The sky is grey, the trees are splattered with dulux and the dog's
autumn colours range.
Spiderman's flying the track against an apparent arch-nemesis,
who's on a tricycle.
The man mutely announcing the apocalypse is now advancing down the boules pitch,
aged, blighted pensioners tremblingly fire at him in order.
Man tied to dog on a lofty top- ledge, rides down
the steep slope on a unicycle, newly cut clumps, ghoulish-green,
spray from either side of it.
Beyond the jostling of bikes and trikes,
of short films and circus skills.
Beyond the frenzied shouts and jumps
from playpark and noah's drowning ark
there is a stillness.
The stillness of something contained; something caged; something sedated.
Spiderman duly falls of his bicycle.