Ah, the tip of the straw gripped by your teeth
I move you gently. You are asleep.
You have a little money but enormous dignity.

You live in a caravan and poach for the pot.
You are silent about the past.
Let sleeping dogs lie.

You were born into misfortune 
But that was in another country and, besides, the wench is dead.
Your arrows for your bow,  a boat made from old furniture,
Keeping clear of anybody in a uniform.

Some days you just float around, fast asleep;
For you, roaming is for life.
Keenly aware of shades, when we met
Stippled skies of dappled hues and colours.