A Friend of the Scholar Gypsies (I) (1986)

Not very long ago
I invited Words to my home.
They favoured my company,
Slept on my bed,
Formed rhyming patterns along
the border of my bolster;
and with my casual permission
grew conspicuous in the home:
peeping out from cushion covers,
cockroaches’ eggs
rubber erasings,
shoelaces,
careless hemlines …

Then they packed and left suddenly,
leaving no clue
as to whether or not
they would housecall again,
I became a bare hanger
in a dark cupboard.
Furniture became fake,
cushions hard.
The fridge was coldly untouched.
The wallpaper peeled from neglect.

I combed cracks and corners,
looked into dustbins,
between pages of yellowing books,
dug inside hemlines
of overgrown clothes,
inside nail varnish
and obscure mothballs.


One weary day
I resolved to give Words up
and let them spin cobwebs.
Then in a sheet of gentle rain
they radioed
a message through the clouds,
apologising for their nomadic schedules.
I was to remain a nostalgic friend.

Words are gypsies
Who tickle your imagination.
They let you sit up in the middle of the night
wondering about their next destination
and your own condition.