A tear for the Piebalds.

So, when you saw us for the first time, what did you think?

What did your senses tell you?

What did your imagination say?

As we tripped a wild dance down your road, a tangle of old bright wagons and carts, to the flying dance of hooves, a bunch of piebald horses and long, shadow- sneaky dogs.

Did you come upon us at a crossroad camp? Or were you by chance drawn along a way and caught in the glint of your eye the sparkle of the campfire, and were you drawn to the wild magic?

And were you drawn to the musky smell of the campfire, of man and dogs and horses?

And did your dreaming self awake, and walk in different footsteps for a short while, or did you hide behind your mother's skirt and stare out at the strange and fearful sight of us?

And did you sneak off to play at apple-time with the strange dark boys with their dogs and horses?

And once in a while, you'd throw a blanket over your shoulder and one of you would follow, lost lost forever to the gray world. Dancing to different drummers, walking to a different beat.

Piebald stallion known as 'The Bishop'.

A 'Wexford' filly.

And you, cold hearted bureaucratic law-makers, men and women of supposed power, do you think the world will be a better place when it all tastes and smells and looks the same?

The same tasteless food and drink, and no magic.

For there is no place in the bureaucratic heart for joy, brightness and chaotic dance.. and ho, you beat us down the years, and now, as a final insult you take away our horses.

'Pounded; carted halfway round the country.

The law supports the hired men who work for profit, and the poor people pay.

All you citizens and house people do you ever stop for a moment and think that in a gray world a wildflower is a rare and precious thing.

And I for one would not want a place in the world that has no place for wild and innocent nature.

Three inquisitive filly-foals.

The above 'outburst of creative chaos' comes from my deep hurt at the way the Irish traveling community, it's culture and in fact it's very essence is being systematically destroyed by the Irish Authorities at County Council level, with the full support of the Irish government, and no, I'm not falling for a romantic ideal. I reared my family amongst these people, and still have strong connections with many traveling families, having many old and true friends in the community. And I know that the laws initially were designed to stop loose horses in urban areas.. however these laws are being abused, and used to make profit for the security firms that operate them. That an Irish traveler can have valuable 'property' in the shape of his horses seized, even though they are tied, and no danger to the traffic.. that he can then be 'fined' very large amounts of money, hundreds, even thousands of pounds just to recover his legal property. Often enduring harassment and abuse in the process.

Many horses are sold out of Ireland, for meat.

The horse pound keep these horses in cruel and painful conditions, all herded together in a yard; mares, foals, stallions, sick & dying horses, without supervision, feed, and often without water. Surely no sane, just and righteous law can allow itself to be used to perpetrate what amounts to ethnic cleansing.

So my friends, Ireland is not all the green dream. For some poor people it is an evil and hurtful nightmare, enforced by the batons of the police.

And so, by these 'acts of justice' a cultural identity is rubbished and destroyed.

These beautiful, useful, graceful horses could well become an endangered species. Don't close your eyes for too long, for you might wake up to a world where all the magic has gone away.

In tears,

Bev.

Castle Pook, April, 1999.

Back to Hag's Bed.

	As we tripped a wild dance down your road, a tangle of old bright wagons and carts, to the flying dance of hooves, a bunch of piebald horses and long, shadow- sneaky dogs. Did you come upon us at a crossroad camp? Or were you by chance drawn along a way and caught in the glint of your eye the sparkle of the campfire, and were you drawn to the wild magic? And were you drawn to the musky smell of the campfire, of man and dogs and horses? And did your dreaming self awake, and walk in different footsteps for a short while, or did you hide behind your mother's skirt and stare out at the strange and fearful sight of us?
And did you sneak off to play at apple-time with the strange dark boys with their dogs and horses? And once in a while, you'd throw a blanket over your shoulder and one of you would follow, lost lost forever to the gray world. Dancing to different drummers, walking to a different beat.
	And you, cold hearted bureaucratic law-makers, men and women of supposed power, do you think the world will be a better place when it all tastes and smells and looks the same? The same tasteless food and drink, and no magic. For there is no place in the bureaucratic heart for joy, brightness and chaotic dance.. and ho, you beat us down the years, and now, as a final insult you take away our horses. 'Pounded; carted halfway round the country. The law supports the hired men who work for profit, and the poor people pay.
All you citizens and house people do you ever stop for a moment and think that in a gray world a wildflower is a rare and precious thing. And I for one would not want a place in the world that has no place for wild and innocent nature.