Caravan
Just off a track by the cross-roads,
Down the old lane, near the ash-trees,
On an autumn day dark and damp,
At the back of the verge, in the long grass,
A faded caravan parked up in its camp.
A horse tied up nearby, cropping the turf,
In its small circle of freedom,
Rangy, mangy and thin,
With its thick, matted coat,
Collection of bones and of skin.
At the door of the vehicle,
Insolently staring, unsmiling.
Stands a pinched, dirty-faced child.
Watches as we walk past her home,
With the look of a creature run wild.
Thin, tattered clothes on the wash-line,
A twist of smoke from the chimney,
At the back, one broken wheel,
Roof that’s seen better days,
And paint-work starting to peel.
No pretty picture postcard,
This scene of rough rural life,
No romantic tale to be told,
But a cramped, hard life on the road,
A struggle against damp and the cold.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016
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