The Gypsy's

The wagons, that I dream...will roll...the weed, I would, will wreath, as well...about the evening vision. Boys, with girls and boys, will whirl and dance...about the circle of the safety lanterns, as the world spin by, in ever faster wind's...of 'camera obscura'. Old men slap their hands as women reel, and weave their dances...to the rythms of a gypsy joy. 

Tamborine, and bohdran, pound and jingle, bound to beat...of horses, tethered to their 'pasture round...Clydedale, Shire, Percheron...thundering, in braces, two by two...pull wagons laden...with the fruit, of a peculiar people. 

From camp to camp we roam...harming none...minding our business...a road that's never done, a people with a dream of millions...simply going on, from freedom to freedom. 


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: By Sir Alfred Munnings,Gypsy Caravan at Ringland Hills