Her Names are Many

Look, there she goes. Dressed in her finery for a Gypsy Rommer.

Black leather boots, long purple dress gold around her neck and a feather in her hat,

She’ll mingle with the guests, drink wine until she’s skimmished.

She’ll hitch her skirts up. Dance like the young ones.

Just before she leaves she’ll give order and sing a song

that nobody knows but everyone loves and then she’ll disappear into the shadows

into the dust that rolls along the empty streets and never settles.

Rommer – wedding; Skimmished – drunk.

Dark is the Forest

Dark is the forest and deep, In times gone past it’s where we’d sleep. Under the oaks or the Hawthorn tree, drop our covels, our minds roam free.

Dark is the forest and deep, for dukkering, our malts will keep, a small gold ring tied with string, around their wrist or in…