‘tis thus they live – a picture to the place
John Clare
Nights were
magic then, once barefoot kids
were tucked
in jazzy blankets fast asleep.
The dark
belonged to us. We’d leave the fire
where
grannies knitted and old tales were spun,
to dare each
other into woods, run wild;
up trees the
girls would thunder us with acorns
then jump
down to be kissed, while old men spat
into the
fire, supped their home-made ale.
It was best
when Irish cousins came,
the back-home
accent of the roaring boys,
who played
their fiddling tiddley-eye tunes.
By day we
worked with horses, went to school,
but nights
were ours for play. The villagers
said we were
scroungers, didn’t pay our way.
But money had
changed hands to get this place.
One autumn
day the bailiffs called. We fought
to stay. Then
‘dozers came, my mum was bashed
and all our
pitches wrecked, our friends forced off.
I doubt I’ll
ever see my girl again.
There’s just
a few of us left now, to squat
in ruined
camp and hope for snow to come
and cover up
this mess of burned-out ground.
Angela
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