The Storyteller

The Storyteller he is always there, in those glamoured dream soaked holy days, etched keenly into the memory a fixture of the summers that flowed then melted into one another to eddy around the stone bench at noon, in the park of Ave Lyon. faithfully he appeared on the clocks twelfth stroke elegant fingers pulled humbugs from intriguing paper packets white hair tamed beneath a silken cap soft snowy beard drifted across his chest eyes a sharp twinkling blue, saw all. long drowsy afternoons we sat, shaded beneath an ancient oak, slipped through the cracks of time caught within the silver words of that timeless apothecary of dreams. our willing guide, to worlds unknown, could captivate our school freed minds with chance for magic carpet rides quest for golden sheep skin prize knight’s and fiery dragon’s lives my eyes would see him still should I chance to pass that green oasis in summers never, never land.