The Gypsy in the woods

Tucked up in the corner beneath the woodland trees stood a Gypsy wagon painted all red, gold, and green.

The birds that sang above it, were merrily of sound, cheerfully their song burst out amongst the common ground.

The dandelions danced along with mini wishing trees, some said it was where angels lay others said they were Fairies.

Whatever tale of the two, there was a magic in those woods: the dappled shade, the Caravan, the Gypsy in the woods.

At night there was a firelight and aromas filled the air, some talked of homemade stew others said it was sweet pear.

In the morning time, the coffee smell would reach along the hedges, but all would say they could always smell sweet herbs and fresh-cut veggies.

Some told tales of having fortunes read, by the Gypsy who went by Rose, hard-working hands, a golden heart, and jingles on her toes.

Beautiful they would say, such hair you've never seen, a thick dark plait with silver tints rest long way past her knees.

Her face it is so graceful, her eyes a window to the world giving hope to many that needed her wisdom or her help.

She never took no money, no silver crossed her palm, instead, she took a loaf of bread or goods that had been farmed.

She’d break the bread in front of you and offer it to you and ladle out a helping of her famous Gypsy stew.

Some old folk were afraid of her, some children they were too, told of Gypsy Curses, but no one knew if true.

The thing with Gypsy Rose, she kept her cards close to her chest, but everyone knew where to come for wisdom at its best.