Harold

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