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!