We are not all on vacation
don’t you know, some of
us are permanent snails
and we need shell-tering.

We’re the no fixed aboders
the off roaders en passants
ships of the night looking
for any port in the storm.

But you keep moving the
goal posts and dropping the
crossbars 2.1 meters head
height which is just for cars.

Everywhere is empty at night
not a vehicle in sight, yet we
are treated as though we have
blight, c’mon let us on to the site.

We’re not ne’er do wells, just a
wrong turn in life has created our
Hell’s, it’s Winter not tourists, vans
are our homes and not prison cells.

We’re homeless not hopeless but
somewhat like refugees it seems
we’re not wanted we are the new
refusees.

There was a time in this land
when the Tinker was scorned
Travelling People we call them
because we have reformed ?

Cead Mile Failte is the motto
of yore, on the town hall of
Mallow they go one number
more.

“Come in the evening
  or come in the morning
  Come when you’re looked for
  or come without warning

  Kisses and welcomes
  you’ll find here before you
  And the oftener you come
  the more we’ll adore you”

It’s best if you’re English,
though not Arab or Black
and all camper van livers
will be given some flack.





Ps. This poem is for the
homeless, whatever form
that is for you. I empathise
and sympathise with all of
you wherever you are in
the world. I am 74 and I can
assure you that Wintering
out in Ireland is not easy,
but a far cry from what the
people of Gaza are facing.