by David Braybrooke

Created on: May 16, 2010   Last Updated: November 11, 2010

It was always the same ...
right on 7 o'clock as we
lay tucked up in cocoons
of fleecy woollens and sighs

that he came to us with
leather bound sky-pointed
towers of tales and odysseys
of missions and magical cares

that wrapped images around
the encroaching blankets
of night's darkest chances
and day's endings for all.

And he read to us in
his lucid and colorful
manner; weaving the
cloud shapes of lands

afar that stirred with a
dragon's cursing and
a hero on quests; with
bows and metal coinage

wrapped up in silken
purses; and the heart of
a princess, locked
inside a castled doom.

Far in to the night with
our young lidded eyes,
like seed pods, closing
to protect against the

night-time chills; to
shield the undeveloped
potentials snug within.
And we listened as

the adventurous bands
slew ogres and blooded
knights, reclaiming kingdoms
and returning lost lovers.

Imaginative worlds and
time-honored literary
treasures that we begged
him to read to us again ...

and again ....
and again ....

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