He was an odd young man who disliked beets..yet despite that, Godfrey made friends easily. He delighted in the company of women, yet at the first hint of possibly impending romance, retreated to the nearest kitchen to bake. His light, airy scones and delicate touch with carrot muffins passed into legend with him.  

And how Godfrey loved to dance, lacking elegance, saying “Feh” to tradition, he created his own works.”The Peruvian Armpit Waltz”, “The Beetroot Cloggeroo”, and the recently discovered “Poultry Spice Blend”..yes, he was a lifelong seeker of wisdom, yet nonsense remained at the core of his being. try this dance to a slow, folky tune suitable for a wide grocery aisle…   

Oh I danced with parsley and wisely with sage, danced with savory and rosemary in their old age, danced close with garlic, (no wish to offend), and with plump, fresh marjoram till evenings end.

When the gala was over and the hall was shut tight, we danced down the pathway on a hot summer night, the slow sunrise paprika from bush fires inland, smoky haze made me wheeze, but we danced through the fennel and the sweet bay leaves.

Coriander! Coriander! , bold pepper from the mill, cheeky root ginger I’ll dance if you will. But you are too strong for cornbread stuffing, let us pick ripe lemons for frosty iced tea after dancing.

Take off your woolen socks, put down that spoon, she said “fetch your guitar where it hangs in the book room, scent of dill weed, butter and chervil, rattle the spice rack as round the warm kitchen we twirl. Jealous basil, hot headed cayenne, keep time as we dance The Poultry Spice Blend.

Grow Walla Walla onions out the backdoor, dance down aisle 7 at the Thrifty’s store, on the harbor I sit as big crowds stroll by me, all headed for the waterside symphony.  A vagabonds evening out, free to attend, on the dry grass, neath the stars dance The Poultry Spice Blend, let the fireworks roar, we dance The Poultry Spice Blend…



   A gem from one of Godfrey’s last known journals…365 Odd Thyme Stories…enjoy.

Five things were predicted at birth for me- Godfrey will never drown, he is destined to wander, he will dislike beets.    Love will always find Godfrey, yet never to stick, Wise Woman Gypsy Sarah  kept the 5th to herself- “He will be all his life, a Homeless Romantic ”

“My dear old granny, when born I, well she loved a wee tipple”. “When only a Bub, she showed me off in the pub, I was chuffed neath the chin, given stout in my bottle, was spoiled on sweets and handed about” “Old Liz behind the bar reckoned, “With those eyes he will be, a Homeless Romantic no doubt”

“Ma called me a ” Wee Hoon”, as alone in my room, I immersed myself in ” The Sonnets”. “In dreams I wandered beet free, lonely moors, misty beaches, and hills for the love I had lost…lost cross the cold Atlantic”  “For she was of wealth, and I was  poor, a manure seller, and stable lad, was just a Homeless Romantic”

“My sister Alice once told me- “To impress the girls I dare, you to stand on the Septic Tank, and pluck out your nipple hair”. “I was old enough to have one or two, so I did”. “Well, the girls I fancied chased me away, with beets on a pointed stick” “I went roaming afar not long after, twas a Homeless Romantic”.

“There was of course, my one true love, Peruvian Clementine.” “Down at the fish-shop eels slipped through her big hands, Deftly she shucked oysters, cut cod pieces thick”..”. When  Clementine threw me face down in the warm sands, my future was sealed- as a Homeless Romantic”.

“I sought hidden the poetry of vast, dirty cities, and the mountains.” Sought wisdom chalked on walls, barked out from market stalls”. “Sought it in the whisper that beckoned me within, the tent of a Palm Reader’ “I  an innocent skeptic, “She took my hand, in tobacco stained old one, told me, “you are indeed a poet, a Homeless Romantic”

“Arrested for singing neath the window of Beverly Fishleigh , wrong window, the coppers informed me”. “Beets were served on a tray, breakfast, lunch and tea”. “It was not very nice in the Reading Town “Nick”- ” I told the old judge “I’m not vagrant or nuisance, merely picked the wrong window to sing under, simply a Homeless Romantic”.

“Now at 40, I woke up with grey in my beard, oft at hostels and gatherings, young folk look at me like I am weird”, but I’ve never regretted this vagabond life, from castle grand, to moldy tent wet”. “From Ballarat, to Knockfollie’s Bridge, knees creaky in the mornings, a tad arthritic, still seeking wisdom, I remain odd, a Homeless Romantic.”