Woodstock, 1969

It was all legs and feet and arms
trampling Max Yasgur’s dairy farm.
His hand, reaching out to tame
the generation gap, brought
little money, lots of damage
and neighbours’ scorn. It was
Woodstock. It was
for love and song and free.
Now, pristine in a gallery
arms, legs, hands
have long forgotten
the psychedelic love generation.
Where once in mud and grass
hippies loved and laughed
in summer warmth,
now a compilation of limbs
sits on marble, stone-cold.