The butter coloured horns of early daffodils
Rock without sound in the snow flecked wind surge
That almost tugged the scarf from off my shoulder.
They shiver in tight knit, short lived families,
Under the scuffed and jagged parapet
Of my red brick garden wall.
I watch the static dance of these winter flowers
And think back to the night when we lugged the rough hay bales
A good half mile through the storm shook forest
To feed the tethered horses.
That was the night that our daughter was conceived
On the cold wooden floor of an unfurnished Vardo.
We were just visitors to the Roma encampment,
A good hundred miles from my loose tongued neighbours
And the unflinching eyes of the gutter Press.-
Our tryst had been facilitated by this band of Travellers,
Their friendship giving us a taste of the freedom
That our cityslicker life styles could rarely access.
And now, five long years since I last caught sight of you
Swanning in your finery through the foyer of a theatre
To lap up the plaudits of your loving public,
I am suddenly reminded of those bunches of daffodils
That we gathered after we had fed the poor horses
Under the bare wet trees.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
26th. - 27th. February 2014.
6th. March 2014.
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