Tinker Child

The campfire flames
Hold you in a trance,
Kids play games,
They sing and dance.

Logs,hiss and crack
As they grow hot,
The smoke turns black
The old cooking pot.

A welcome breeze
That blows, quite light,
Rustles golden leaves
Making them take flight.

Far from the camp
There is only dark,
No light from lamp,
Just a lonely bark.

Horses hitched
And also hobbled,
Torn clothes stitched,
Worn shoes cobbled.

Wagons placed
As in a wheel,
Their owners taste
The evening meal.

Lots of food
For everyone to share,
For the men are good
With trap and snare.

Dogs gather around
To search for scraps,
When something's found
Lots of yelps and yaps.

Pipes filled, then lit,
By young and old,
It's time to sit
And hear stories told.

Tales so tall
Of witch or ghost,
And you recall
Those you like most.

They tell a lifestyle
That will soon be past,
When they lived by guile
And thought so fast.

For when things went wrong,
Tinkers got the blame,
Despite protests strong,
All were classed the same.

Yet you know in your mind
And admit it's true,
That for you and your kind
Those days are through.

But you vow to remember
And never feel shame,
As you gaze in the ember
Of the campfire's flame.


Ian Clark