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Gorgie child & Traveller child,
sitting in the sand.

Do not see a difference,
as they hold each other’s hand.

All they see before them,
their castles in the air.

The placing of the flag & shells,
with the greatest care.

Come back to my trailer home,
if you are allowed to come.

Gorgie, Gypsy mother’s love,
every mother’s son.

The war it ceased in 1945,
but will it never end.

The face of hate on either side,
those waving placards too.

Do not solve the problems,
as they come home to you.

While each side refuse to see,
each others human face.

The brother sister members of

By Trish Wilson
Copyright© 26th January 2008

My Heritage, Godshill Gypsies

There is a tribe across the sea.
A special branch of my family tree.
Wanderers, who roamed wild and free.
They were the New Forest Gypsies.

I feel a sense of awesome pride.
Unlike some, I cannot hide,
The truth that I have come to know
Nor, the excitement that, within me flows!

Because once I walked unsure of me.
Not knowing my identity.
This branch of my family tree was kept hidden.
It was never to be revealed. FORBIDDEN!

It seemed there was a certain shame.
But why was being a Gypsy to blame?
And so because of the ignorance of man,
We were kept away from our family clan.

But no more will years and time be wasted.
I have been there and I have tasted,
A mixture of the bitter and sweet.
And oh, fond memories of the ones I did meet.

I keep each one within my heart,
As time goes by and we're apart.
I long to be united still
With the “Gypsies of Godshill ".

Though I cannot turn back the hands of time
I can travel in my mind,
To a place where time stands still,
And join the Gypsies on Godshill.

In the compound at Millersford Bottom
I can hear their voices and see their faces.
I feel like I belong with them.
As though I have come home again.

I hear their laughter and the music, sweet.
I feel the sorrow of life, bittersweet.
They were a people full of pride,
Rightfully fearing to let strangers inside.

Their way of life so simple, yet,
A struggle with each new day met.
But to live life in their own free way
Made it seem a small price to pay.

Now that freedom is no longer theirs.
And often, I have shed my tears
For a past that I cannot recapture.
Because it was never meant to be,
The life that God had chosen for me.

But I keep searching far and deep
For memories that I can keep,
Of a heritage that I will proudly pass on
To my children, their children, and so on, and on.

And I thank you Lord God for blessing me
With the wonderful heritage
Of the "Godshill Gypsies ".

By Karen Griswold (née. Miller)
Karen’s mother was Sabina Patience Pidgley; her mother was Edith Pidgley (nee. Sheen)
whose parents were Albert Richard Sheen and Emma Jane (Emily) Day.

Romany Adaptation (Living within four walls)

Strip the briar
Make the baskets,
Easier sooner
Said than done.

Fill the baskets
With moss and primrose,
Fashioned to
Seduce the eye.

Into Christchurch
Saturday morning,
See the ladies
Passing by.

Only sixpence
for my baskets,
Of my best
You can rely.

If luck is with me
All my labours
Close on mid-day,
Will be sold.

With the money
Buy my shopping,
Then return
To hearth and home.

Gather family
Round the fire-side,
Have our tea
With dripping bread.

I am blessed
And truly grateful,
This is the time
I treasure best.

By Trish Wilson Copyright©

1950’s Child (By Trish Wilson)

1930s bungalow
Mum and Dads
Bay window
Finial on top
White washed porch
White washed
Us too
Some times
1930s front door
Round window
I could see through
When grown enough
Iron knocker RAPPED
Summons us
To Granny's parcel
From the Hill
Some rusty bacon
Primroses and violets
In a damp moss jacket
Waiting for a drink
The practical and the beautiful
Wrapped in brown paper
Tied with string
A letter someone else wrote
Or a tramp
They all knew.
A sympathetic face
Mum sent them on their way
With a cup of tea a sandwich
And sixpence for later
Not that she had much
But more than he.
The Gypsy woman calling
With willow baskets
Full of wares
We could not be without
Lace, paper flowers, and ones of moulded wax
Willow mats, basket ware and pegs
Mother made her purchase
"Good luck lady" "Good luck Gypsy woman".
The coal man called at the back
Black face
Runnels with rain or sweat
Frightened me
Small child I was then
The crash
Of the coal
Hitting the coal shed floor
Hands over my ears terrified
He polite, respectful to my mother
He would call again in a fortnight
To terrify me.
The baker
Real bread
Fresh from the basket
Nice and crusty
Mr “Light” the meter man
Who never seemed to mind
The filed down halfpennies
Mother always paid
Miss Barnett was our Christian Herald
An upright lady on an upright bike
When age caught up
The Herald came by post
One day she went to Heaven
We were sure of that
She was gone
A life fulfilled, as our lives were

By Trish Wilson Copyright©

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