Women with fruit, laughing, Elizabeth in that circle of light, and the faces peering in, the strange twisted little things of the ones we've known. I cannot stop, and cannot forget, the gypsies pressing fruit against my lips. The stare of the sunlight, and the murmuring, and the laughter rising above it all, the victorious crow of some cock, the lovesong of a girl and the daylight. There are bright coins of laughter in my Lizzie's cheeks, bright cherries at her lips, and flashing, flashing, turning.
There's a whisper, an eddy, a rising of serpents, the grass moving behind us, and me backing away. Around and around, Lizzie twirls, her hand reaching out for me and catching the nut brown hand of a gypsy.
May Day. May Queen. My Lizzie. Twirling and turning, and I will not reach out with these faces around us everywhere and the fruit crushed under your heels so carelessly. The tinker-gypsy secrets are woven up into your hair and loosed like bats to come home. Beautiful, honey-sweet Lizzie for all to see and wonder at and to fear.