Still Human
Each week dull Tesco trips brightened
by a fresh motor on the cusp of their land.
Hipster catnip of camper or convertible,
competitively priced, ‘Engine extra’ we would chuckle.
That Tuesday, pulsing police lights,
smack of a raid on the encampment,
even a squad car sentinel on the central verge,
whatever the story, we root for the travellers.
Evening news tells a grizzly tale. How in the early hours
mother and sister baring balloons and birthday banners
slipped into brother’s burger van to deck, lit the
generator,
carbon monoxide transforming the space into a gas chamber.
Middle class chums are niggardly with their condolence
yet ready enough to spend sympathy on migrants,
As if people who park their lives on the margins,
do not share their complete colour chart of emotions.
Following week, desolation hangs over the site like low
cloud.
Caravans crowd the entrance, ponies and dogs have vanished.
Developers previously seen off, now rub their hands
at the prospect of this piece of prime land.
But some months later, a dumper truck is up for sale,
OVNO suggesting might take a Bullseye off for cash.
And the site, caravans and their animal retinue are back,
as the travellers flourish one finger up to luck.
Fiona Sinclair
If you have any
thoughts about this poem, Fiona
Sinclair would be pleased to hear them
