Josephine, Gypsy Girl.

Seeing is believing.

Wandering among the wagons I watch the frost forming on crushed grasses even as I walk.

The tethered horses trample the filigree whiteness.

Fallen leaves have turned brittle in the frost. Snowdrops crouch under a ruination of trees.

An untrained woodsman has hacked deep into the tangled branches.

The moon, a cold white reflector crazed by clouds, intermittently flickers light into the February
bleakness. I stand stock still and shiver.

The darkest nights have passed. Spring is yet to flourish.

In the chill distance a dog barks.

I wait and listen to hear if the horses have once more settled, and then climb the wooden steps up
into your ancient wagon. At first I see nothing.

Hurting my eyes I peer deep into the dark interior. An oriental paradise of carpets and plump
cushions befogged by incense welcomes me. You sit on the narrow bed smoking a cigarette.
You are at home in this musty artifice.

Now only the moonlight illuminates the wagon.

The incense masks the shadows.

We lie side by side but not touching, cocooned in an empathy of silence beneath the patchwork
bedspread that once belonged to your mother, and her mother and grandmother before her.

Once your mother tried to part us. We laugh when we think about that. Deftly we link shy fingers.

Outside the wind is stirring the silhouettes of the trees upon the muslin curtains. Snug in our love
we study each others faces for hour upon silent hour until the moonlight falters. The darkness
does not disrupt the calm within our sanctuary. Your presence comforts me. Not seeing is also believing.

We kiss without speaking.

Eventually we sleep.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
May 6th. - May 9th. 2011.