Grand Old Scribe

grandma bare bosomed and barely covered by frayed crocheted pants looked like a mixture of parakeet and paragon in a fairy tale’s garment under cover of darkness she would bare her wickedness and emotions a mocking bird with a beak full of gold and a never ending feathered quill fire in her heart and a pen crafted from charcoal and indelible passion tea leaves suspended in a crystal ball swayed by pendulums of words stepladder to wisdom swinging from a roped pinnacle at the threshold from reality to psychedelic hunter and gatherer of mushrooms and magic candles crafted from Arabian lamps exuded Alhambra charms and Alladin whose cave was her fortress in the woods of past future times and pastiche desk like a lamp post overshadowing contours and scripted penumbra it was never too late to have a happy childhood with a wick as companion no hermit but prophesy personified she send messages out into the world parchment of wisdom tied to acorns belladonna berries and butterfly wings required no answers because questions held stronger without instant replies the old scribe never died because an oak tree grew unperturbed in my soul 27th June 2020