Members Poems
THE OLD VARDO
By Paul Stevens
The old vardo
Broken and forgotten
Paint flaking, cracked
Like tattered autumn leaves
Falling petals dancing in the wind
Caught beneath a broken wheel
The door falls open
Creaking, singing to the wind
Whispers of sound trickle from the cold
Like echoes lost in time
Inside, darkness shredded
Through the shattered roof
Cloud-broken sunlight climbs the walls
And remembers the magical essence
The spirited heart and musical souls
Of the people of the road
Haunted vardo, standing still
In your atchin tan
Your old beauty now a secret sign
Waiting for the heart to set you free
Before you become "Just a memory"
A TRIBUTE TO BIG TOM
By Melchior Locke
Big Tom was a piebald horse, seventeen hands
Head held high, handsome
Main flowing, fetlocks feathered
His coat was bright and gay
For nigh on five and twenty years
I shared my thoughts with him
Harnessed for plough, shaft, festival or show
Coat groomed, leather soft and supple
Evil spirits warded off by brightly burnished brasses
Decorated terret atop his head
Shoulders powerful, pulling plough, furrows straight and true
Turned over by the share
Followed by black-inked rooks and wheeling, screaming gulls
Ploughed field flattened by harrow tines
Breaking clats ready for the seed
Sowing, scuffling, harvesting, mowing,
All taken in his stride
March, April, May he covered mares
Who, when amply stinted, for eleven long months carried
Afore throwing his frisky, long-legged foals
Farriers' favourite, standing stock-still
Silent as hooves pared, shoes set and nailed
Sparks flying from his feet as down the lane he lolloped
For nigh on five and twenty years
I shared my thoughts with him
Head hung low and broad back sagged
Time had taken its toll
Spirit willing, but strength had waned, made way
for younger horse
And Tom in pleasant pastures lazed
Every eve no matter what, I saw him in the field
He ambled slowly to the gate, and gently from my hand
Took apple, brown bread and his favourite current cake
I called his name, and called again, empty was the field
I hurried to the stable yard - poor old Tom had died
For nigh on five and twenty years
I'd shared my thoughts with him
And I cried!
ONE MORE DAY
By Mary Horner
Buzzards, Red Kites, Ravens
Circle in the sky
Free to roam the countryside
Away from you and I
I watch them and I envy
Their freedom and their skill
For part of me feels wild
Loves to travel as I will
There's nothing I like better
Than to roam from place to place
Just hills, and trees and rivers
And not a single face
For nature is so wondrous
Takes my breathe away
So many times I'm grateful
For living one more day!
