Who is Maurice?

Mid-summer solstice, Highdown Hill,
with sunshine fading
the worn blue hem of the crinoline sky
and tired trees shading
the spreading stain on the grass still dry

enough for sitting on until
the solstice dancing
begins. Soon tribal uniforms appear
like lamps enhancing
the darkening scene and bright colours spear

the lowering gloom. The rising chill
is warmed by glowing
fantastic fluttering tatter coats
and kerchiefs showing
the dancers lit by the moon which floats

gibbous above the path uphill.
The tribes are coming,
the savage hordes of famed morris men
and women humming
accordion tunes to be ready when
the squeeze box wails to show their skill :

heeling and toe-ing,
to-ing and fro-ing,
forward and backing,
struck sticks clacking,
hopping and skipping,
bobbing and dipping,
expertly pacing their dancing drill.

At last the music and dancing petered out ;
stillness drowned the final goodbye shout ;
the vibrant gaucho colours leaked away ;
an end must come to even the longest day.

Exactly what we celebrated isn't clear
but any excuse for joy is welcome
at the sad point of the year.