Swart as the eyes of gypsies, indigo

Clusters of droplets on the trailing vines,

The wild fruit of the bramble lures the hand.

Thick in the wasteland where no man doth sow

They urge their right to live amid the spines

Of stubborn gorse and thistles, nettles and

A maze of fronds where the long grasses grow,

Nodding with every breeze.  Each spray inclines,

Tempting the fingers as if by command !

Imperiously majestic domino,

What does thou mask beneath thy sable silk?

We see thee pink in blossom, green, then red

Ere glistening ebony falls o’er thy head,

And dye as deep as sin stains thy sweet milk.


Weekly Times     7.10.60