On a dark November morning
As the crimson dawn turned pale
A painted caravan came groaning
Down the path to Little Vale.
Drowsy villagers lit gas lamps
Weary with the sights of war,
Rationed their welcome to the camp
Of vagrant wanders from afar.
A toothless hatter played a tune
On a violin patched up with rags,
His wife, a scrawny singing loon,
Joined his song with sighing lags.
A small boy, just turned four
Stopped in a trench, by the muddy stream
His bucket at hand, his eyes, a dream
What joyous wonder his ears bore?
He whistled – then from fuming holes,
Bright eyes with waking grins came forth
To sing with gypsies for the souls,
Who left the living world, up north.
Light drops trembled in the cobwebs
Which adorned the moving house,
A freckled lass came down its steps
Her tartan pockets, home for a white mouse.
She joined her mother, they embraced,
Then pulled a tin whistle from her curls,
Melodious notes a joyous wonder traced
On the lost faces of parents, boys and girls.
‘A dance for the living!’ a man asks,
And they dance to a merry jig,
The hatter’s hat in shrapnels basks,
As heavy feet footprint puddles dig.
Alas, ’tis dusk, the gypsies bid farewell,
And light their torch for the northern road
To bring the gift of song and wish men well,
As light seeps through, to lift darkness’s load.
Dr Anamaria Weston 