From the old
butterfly net of his moth eaten mind,
Collecting letters
& words of every type sort & kind,
The brief snatches
of songs from those long ago days,
Elderly memories
that come, but now so rarely stays.
His tellings of
the seasons & the soft flowering of blooms,
Relating in poems,
of waxing & waning of old blue moons,
He narrates of
warm summers & then the turning of leaves,
And of snow on far
hilltops, after the gathering of sheaves.
He talks of pretty
ladies, all children & the senses of men,
Of exotic far
places & of the love for his home in the glen,
His words honour
women- & romance of hot primed lovers,
His tales waft on
high, upon the flight of soft feathered plovers.
So I asked him, “Please
tell me your tales, dear story-telling man,”
But he just
sweetly smiled at me & took hold of my small hand,
“The tales are within
you child, you make your own life stories,”
And turning away, he
left me to weave my own sweet glories.
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