The Raconteur’s the story-teller
Nothing more and nothing less,
An art it is that’s simply supreme
And demands, unique, finesse.

We call him the Raconteur
‘Cause he loves telling stories,
As they are or as they were
And, mostly, of elves and fairies.

There’s something about the voice
For, it lingers on in memory
And, even when you have a choice
You choose to recount his story.

They all have the “gripping” bit
Each story that he tells,
He knows how dull life becomes
With the sounds of the tolling bells.

The tale that comes to mind often
Relates to a hoary past,
Those times of, uncaring, fun and frolic
That usually do not last.

“Twas a cold, wintry, morning
In the land of hills and valleys,
No cobblestone, no broken bits
No dark and treacherous alleys.

Dawn was dressing up somewhere
As the Night was bidding goodbye,
And the golden rays of the Sun
Were brightening up the sky.

‘Twas too early to think of getting up
And walking to the stream
But, it all happened in a tearing hurry
As it does in a dream.

I saw the tadpoles jumping around
All over me and my sister,
‘Cause we played with them every day
And, they missed her and Me, her brother.

The lovely frolicking, swishing, tadpoles
Were the best of friends we had,
For the closeness of those morning moments
We both were delighted and glad.

The Sun and the rays of Dawn
That woke me up each day
Were nowhere in my sight,
It did not occur to me
That I was asleep
And, dreams don’t connect with light.

We were holding the tiny tadpoles
In our hands as they whipped around
Silently,
We’d put them back in the waters
For, to us they were
Our morning page of history.

A time that I now recall lovingly
Four score years later
For, that is how Time glides by,
Precious indeed
Those moments together.

O, how, unknowingly, does Time slip by
Beautiful as that dream was
‘Twas also really wild,
Tadpoles or your favourites
We must keep alive, that child.

Forget the child within, then
Who will remind you of the stream,
If you lose those little playful times
You lose life’s living dream.

‘Twas the Elf within me
That had that magical power,
When I could walk up the “Chinar” tree
Or climb the Eiffel Tower.

The Raconteur is that little child
The one with the cute, smiling, frown,
The one that we, in our silly wisdom
Childishly, submerge in grown- up attire and drown.

(The author is a prolific poet who has over 40 poetry books to his credit. He can be reached at ashoksawhny06@gmail.com)