Gypsy Soul, All Grown

The gypsy in her can’t keep still.

Hands keeping busy, stroking the hair of 

those that like to fly the nest with her, 

often, unregrettably. 

Feet itching to walk away, forget life as it is; run. 

Stop for breath, touch the lives of a few lonely people, then soar. 

It’s easy to set up camp when you’ve done it 

a thousand times. 

Who needs a bed when home is carried in 

the heart. 

Walls don’t comfort her, restriction is not an

ally. 

She keeps people in her pockets and 

memories behind her eyes.

Green fields are her sanctuary, birdsong her

 favourite conversation.

She lives by the moon, waves crashing and 

retreating. 

The gypsy soul can’t be held for long. 

She flees like the wind and remains a star 

they love to watch but don’t remember. 

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