There’s nothing quite like a talented Storyteller who can turn words into pictures that seize the imagination





The Storyteller

Tell me a story of honour and pride,

pennant tipped lances, a wild stallion

ride. Where fair maidens are taken

and with magic bound, about witches,

warlocks, villains and knights from

tables round. Tell me of lands where

giants roam, enchanted forests both

dark and cold, the woods, glades and

streams that sprites call home. Let

me hear you talk about dragon lore,

mysterious fires in which kings

the future saw. Tell me all with

earnest voice, bright darting eyes

and compelling edge, just one more !



When I was a boy my father was a Salesman driving all over the country. In those days, the roads were not as good, the emergency services fewer . Winters were often cold and snowy and we, like all kids hoped for blizzards which would close schools and bring sledging, snowballs and snowmen.

For me this childhood treat was tempered by the thought of Dad driving around in atrocious and dangerous weather. His frown and his obvious worry were palpebral but no sales, no money.

I used to sit on his bedroom window sill for hours until finally his car appeared at the end of the street.

Waiting for Dad

Small boy,curled in feline form on the narrow window ledge.

Ancient glass,constantly by hand cleared of moisture,opaque,

cold touch pane teases a cheek.

Vague familiar scent of cologne, elusive, a comforting shade

of absent love. A red striped tie strewn on the bed. Images of

him wearing his favourite blue.

A bedside clock ticks, mocking with it’s constant reminding,

providing a steady beat, marking a child’s mounting angst.

Outside odd cars gingerly inch by, soon covered tracks

deny their passing while ice insects swarm in the glow of

struggling headlights.

Purist white bathed in strange hues by drama enhancing sodium

street lamps.

Not a soul can be seen.

A question fatigued mother with perfected mask of nonchalance,

a young imagination running wild, heightened senses, straining,

a feeling, a knowing relief at the first glimpse of familiar form,

amber light, flashing an ‘all is well’ signal.

Excitement flooded voice announces “Mum, he’s back !”


The Butterfly and the hand

While summer day leaden lids ushered in sleep

and into tranquil mind gentle dreams did seep,

hands, limp and lifeless facing the balmy sun ,

as exquisite mind stilled musing had just begun

I became at once aware of an imagined touch,

for it was almost too slight be known as such.

Then without intent, eyes dropped onto my palm.

The world was a solemn stillness, all was calm,

and there rested a Butterfly, there in my hand.

I was awestruck, blessed by a vision so grand.

As I watched it’s wings twitch and flap in code,

entranced by the vivid flash colour it showed,

I wondered what news delicate herald brought,

and did it not fear to be by frightful fist caught.

I seemed to understand, but what I couldn’t say,

then gone that beautiful moment as it flew away


On the passing of a Lover

I saw you there



I saw you there the other day,stood over by the wall,

though at me you did not look.

Your face was rounder and you did not seem as tall,

but still, what I could I took.



I saw you there, in the Park, sat alone on our bench.

You stared, lost in thought.

With a half glance you left, again I felt that wrench

as against panic I fought.



I saw you there, in the crowd,leaning against the door,

yet I heard not your voice.

It was only a moment and my very soul I’d sell for more,

if only I had the choice.



I saw you there the other day, walking along the pier,

though deep inside I knew,

when you whispered “let me go, shed your final tear”

that it never could be you.