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.
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