Durling, the Dreamer

In a town where the wind hums soft through the trees,

Lived Durling, a soul at perpetual ease.

He walked with a grin and a hat tipped just so,

Chasing the sunrise wherever he’d go.

His pockets held marbles and maps made of stars,

He’d whistle to sparrows and talk to guitars.

A tumble of laughter, a twist of the breeze,

He danced with the shadows beneath the elm trees.

No clock could contain him, no schedule held tight,

He sailed through the hours on silver moonlight.

The town called him odd, a whisper, a wink—

But Durling just smiled, too deep in his think.

He’d paint on the sidewalks with raindrops and chalk,

And teach all the children to dream when they walk.

"Life," he would say, "is a tale yet to turn,

So fill it with wonder and let your heart burn."

Now Durling is legend, a name in the breeze,

Still dancing with shadows beneath the old trees.

And sometimes at dusk, if you’re quiet and still,

You’ll hear him just laughing down by the hill.