Late April is the surest time to find him,
his caravan freshly painted, neat and trim
and bolted down onto a carpet of bluebells
deep pile and double underlayed with bright smells
of sprung spring sinking into the rocky hollow
beside the motorway, umbrella’d by a matriarchal willow.
No gypsy he, though gypsy lust he plied
in grim grey ships until his interest died
and found him setting guns in enfilade
and soothing nervous chargers on Horse Guards Parade.
A spell at the bellows followed until
he lay down his tools and sat so still
on the top step of his ladder that birds will take
the crumbs from his leathered palm and rabbits make
mischief in the wet grass oblivious
of his past, hidden beneath a beard no less obvious
by dint of a single black and white photograph
that’s dusted off for anyone who beats a path
to his bower. No guarantee that he’ll be there:
On Monday he collects water if the weather’s fair;
Tuesday rides the bus to the local library
and breakfasts at Morrisons, routine unlikely to vary
much unless he’s in Australia on a shoestring
where he’ll wait until the bees awake and bring
him home to Shropshire on a nostalgic mist
of milk and honey, foible and fables of dreams lately kissed.
John H Davies
13th January 2011
What goes around
