The Gypsy Came, Riding. Poem by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

The Gypsy came,
riding! With thunder hooves
his horse played herald
to his royal approach
and I, a Lady, turned my head
and hurried

I burned like Lot's wife
and glanced - my undoing -
his eyes met mine
a gypsy like a ghost
from the romances
my mother read
a gypsy king
a vagabound

He hung around
and the Gentlemen began
to talk of him
a fine fellow
a rare on for the dogs
and games played with badgers
on moonfull nights
and rare one for the ladies
and other nocturnal sports

He stared and me
til I lost countenance
and lowered my eyes
and he began
to woo me, like Desdemona
had been courted -
with stories.

And I became the
the Gypsy's lady
favoured of all his patrons
Until he left, my GYpsy
not fled but moved
amid flurry and laughter.
I would not plead.

Next Summer I watched
the roads
in dust and cool
at twilight, at dawn, at
all those times the poets love
and women hate with reason.

I heard last year
there was amerchant's son wed
a flightly lad given to sport
a darkhaired, wideeyed man
who used to spend each summer
wandering.