The story teller in Wales

The story teller in Wales

‘Twas in the mountains high in Wales,

an old man lived who told fable tales.

With crooked pipe and knotted cane,

he spoke of loss, and love, and rain.

By firelight glow on stormy nights,

he shared of dragons, daring flights,

of girls who ran from golden rings,

and kings undone by lesser things.

Some said he once had been a knight,

or vanished bard who shunned the light,

but none could tell what tale was true.

He winked and said, that’s up to you.

And by the hearth his daughter sat,

in shawl of green and pointed hat.

She never spoke of what she knew,

but saw the world in deeper hue.

For just a few notes she read your future.

A coin or a tune, she asked no further.

She tapped her drum or plucked a string,

and hummed the shape of everything.

She sang of love that hadn’t met,

of debts unpaid and some regret,

and sometimes gently she would cry

for things that hadn’t yet gone by.

And when the morning broke with gold,

the tales grew fresh, though just as old.

With laughter light as mountain air,

you left your troubles resting there.

For in those hills both sharp and wide,

the past and future softly bide,

and those who listen, those who stay,

may find their hearts a gentler way