Ah, the tip of the straw still gripped by your teeth

I move you gently. You are asleep.

Not jealous or envious or proud.

You have a little money but enormous dignity.

You live in a caravan and still poach

For the pot. You are remarkably silent about the past.

I think it is wise to let sleeping dogs lie.

You would have taken another birth into more fortunate circumstances

But that was in another country and, besides, the wench is dead.

You make your arrows for your bow,  have a boat made from old furniture.

You love messing about in boats and keeping clear of anybody in a uniform. 

Some days I find you just floating around in languorous circles, fast asleep

For you, roaming is for life.

You are keenly aware of shades, when you paint

Stippled skies of dappled hues:

                          Not the gloomy colours of uneasiness, sadness and urbanity.