My father used to say, whenever we passed gypsies at the roadside, ‘Look, wave to our country cousins.’ He was referring to a tale told to him by his father, of gypsy blood in the family many generations back.
Later, when researching family history, I made contact with a distant branch of the family in New Zealand who added weight to this tale as the same story had been passed down their line of the family.
It appears that there was some liaison with a Romany who came across from Brittany while the family was living in the Thornbury area of Gloucestershire. Unfortunately no details are known, or seem to have been recorded; this has often made me wonder?
The Gypsy in me.
There’s gypsy in me, so I’m told
it’s in my bloodline, in my genes.
It’s why I crave the open air
and open spaces, wild and free,
are places where I need to be.
Some dark liaison long ago
has left a lasting legacy
of restlessness and itchy feet
that feel the need to up and roam
although I’m happy here at home.
Perhaps a gypsy boy, so bold,
had charmed a milk maid with his song
or dark haired beauty’s flashing eyes
did search inside a ploughman’s soul
and steal away his self control.
Just who it was I’ll never know,
of how they loved, or lived their lives
of where they travelled, when and why.
Which Romany had broke their code
and lingered with a Gorgio.
When van and vanners rest nearby
their wood-smoke wafting on the breeze
dogs barking, children, wild, untamed.
If then, I feel affinity,
it’s just the gypsy, that’s in me.
Tags: Creative writing, Odd Odes, Poems, Poetry, Writing
