Great post Mike, I loved the ending…”The Storyteller, who relished in trial and error had his ‘all-ears’ lucrative gallery craving for more.”



Come the withering seasons night-time mists

in the days before fiery invention

the blackness of wide open spaces conjured up bogus beliefs

credible magic, stark fear and worthy legends

sugared coated by the storyteller and heirs apparent

the whole of history was in narrative, in those times before

the wonderment of pigments and dyes captured the spoken word

as forest myth bewitched willing ears and eyes

the safe birthing of twins, folklore and fiction was assured

the then known world, yet to evolve into a fertile, multi-coloured globe

just a perilous expanse of level smallness, at the far reaches of which one could tumble

over the edge, into the wide worthless yonder, never to be spoken of in confidence again

some, the foolish or the explorer’s fell, those out of the ordinary, were driven over by the perturbed

to the music of pan pipes and castanets, from the mountains…

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