A Wolf Dressed In Hope
That summer was a trick, a flimflam scam, a wolf dressed in hope; the allure of the unknown, the mystery. Mum and Dad planted tent pegs in the baked earth, said, “The festival is about trust and dreams”. A canvas triangle rose from the ground, a temporary home with flimsy walls. They said, “Do whatever you want”, and gave her fifty pence that she shoved in the backpocket of her purple handmade shorts. It was 1978. She roamed all day through incense clouds, to the smell of grilled flesh; from faraway the thud of music licked her ears. “You look fifteen”, the man winked, placing a Cornish pasty in the palm of her hand; it was burning hot, peppery, stuffed with meat. She grinned; she was only twelve. The man closed his van. “Lets walk”. He grabbed her sweaty hand, pulled her to a field full of golden sheaves of hope, of all that she could be. Afterwards, she remembered stalks bisecting the azure, spikelets of hulled wheat closed, fastened shut. When he laid her down she left her body, sought refuge elsewhere. The sky turned dark and he broke her, broke her into many pieces.