The Traveller Poem by Roger Stapenhill

THE TRAVELLER

Lonely man on lonely road,
a battered pram for his meagre load.
Making sketches to portray,
the towns he visits along the way.
Battered boots and dirty trousers
the world his garden. Who needs houses?
Food from housewives, their main sin
they're eager to be rid of him.
In Summer sun, king like, royal,
laughing, watching others toil.
Cools his feet in brooks and streams
idyllic settings for a man of dreams.
Then when Winter starts appearing,
little change, little fearing.
Like a fox, cunning, sly,
finds barn of straw to keep him dry.
A footprint in to Winter's snows
the only sign of where he goes.
And whilst the cold March winds are slating,
of him no sign. Hibernating?
But, as Spring starts breaking out
he'll appear, there's no doubt.
But onward, nowhere permament.
And no one to care much where he went.
Lonely man on lonely road,
pushes along his meagre load.