Shining Like Brilliantine
Along the track a horse and caravan trundled,
by Ernestine Northover
Brushing the green and verdant grass between,
Inhaling the cool fresh air, she walked beside it,
With the bridle’s brass shining like brilliantine.
Inside were all the items that she treasured,
Gaily painted articles of her youth.
A crystal ball, her means to make a living,
Within a lonely Fortune Teller’s booth.
Her Mother, and Grandmother had before her,
Told the fortunes of a thousand curious minds,
This tradition in her blood’s forever present,
A Romany woman takes on what she finds.
Climbing swiftly up onto the wagon,
With melodious words, she flicked the fraying reins.
Coaxing the piebald on to their next location,
Sauntering off down new found country lanes.
© Ernestine Northover