The Sleeping Gypsy

Henri Rouseeau, 1897 In the heat of her dream, she hears The iron kettle boiling, its scuttle and hum As hurried as hoofbeats across a plain. She drops in two guinea hens. Dancing In a ring round her skirts, the children Cheer, “Auntie, the English song!”  Lifting Her lute, she sings of the cat and the fiddle, The cow jumping over the moon.  How the little Ones hoot when the dish runs away With the spoon.  Ah, spoon — an uncloaked Lute, it waits to be strummed. The temptation of London, of Paris, Of bumping along in the carriage with M. Philippe In his top hat and greatcoat to visit The peacocks, turquoise and gold and green, each Roaming the Bois de Boulogne with one hundred eyes. She sleeps in the desert, under a smiling full moon That shines in the teal night. Quiet behind her, A lion stands, tail erect, having sniffed At her onyx flesh, at the ribbony stripes His color-blindness darkens on her muslin dress, All rainbow hues. She is lost in a dream, Always happiest out of doors, without shoes.