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The Gypsies

One waning day,’twas twilight, or maybe dusk, I met a throng of gypsies.
Their gaudy homes, for a while, ensconced in the glade of a nearby wood.
A brackish stream nearby for water, at hand steres of wood to fuel their fires.
I stood;  still, and eyes wide open glances were shared twixt these Romanys’
And my Caucasian being until, in unison, as if it was for everyones’ good
We smiled, then laughed out loud. Recalling this moment brings forth sighs.


By signs I was asked to share a place beside the warmth of flickering flames
And to partake of their evening meal, hedgehogs in the ashes, clay baked.
Not wanting to offend, nor hurt, I accepted with deep down mustered grace.
A melodious voice singing to a lightly strummed guitar by a man whose name
I’ll never know, Orion’s belt in starry sky, the gracious dancing all ached
To be engraved forever in my memory of this magical and even mythical place.


Dawn came so soon after a night troubled with unattainable  wishes in dreams
That were so rudely dashed on rubbing sleep from heavy, unbelieving eyes.
Not a caravan, no cold ashes from an evening fire, nor meat cleaned bones
Could  be seen midst the grey and swirling mists of daybreak, morose and mean.
Were the ephemeral joys that were mine the eve before only malicious lies?
No, laughing voices, sweet music and the cosmos all find place in loving homes

Harry Simpson June 2009