I write in the presence
of gypsies in the night.
I write in their castles
because my soul has wandered
the length and breadth
of my old street,
its mantelpiece
and lattice.
I write when the moonlight
flows cheerfully upon a Rembrandt,
a Monet and a Van Gogh.
I write when the past surfaces
once in a while
in the odd way
children play
hopscotch
on holy ground.
