For my father, a true spell weaver,
Who imparted to me
An endearing love of stories.
A time-worn book, heavy with tales,
Rests tenderly on my father’s knee.
At the rustle of the pages we press in close,
Tonight which one will it be?
His resonant voice a spell begins to weave,
Now a whisper…now a shout…now a roar.
Bequeaths life to brave knights and dragons alike
And unlatches our imagination’s door:
Our feet tread soft sand on an island shore
And a breeze kisses sun-scorched skin.
From vacant skies, gulls’ desolate cries
Pierce through the swells’ surging din.
Dark sails advancing on the pitching waves,
Send shivers of suspense, edged with glee.
A treasure as their end, will our champion defend
Against villains set sail o’er the sea?
A furious blaze of devouring flames
Fling fiery confetti to the sky.
The frantic, fierce rhythm of an African drum,
A foreboding that danger prowls nigh.
This cocoon of light, our defence from the night,
But faint rustles fill our thoughts with fear.
At the rumble of a roar, our hearts skip a beat,
For we dread it’s fabled Scar-face we hear.
Silent shadows shift on a mist-clad moor
To the morning-bell’s muffled toll.
Stealthily creep to the looming castle keep
Laying claim to the crown a brother stole.
The keeper’s warning cry, a command and a crash
And the clash of the cold, cruel blade.
A kingdom to be conquered, rebellion crushed
And betrayal’s costly price to be paid.
Stories crafted into place, with passion and pace,
Brought to life through the spell weaver’s skill.
He conjures a charmed carpet from pages worn
Where once words lay lifeless and still.
The adventurous course this woven carpet sails,
Guides explorers to lands far and wide,
Through ages past and those still to come
On a heart-soaring, spellbinding ride.
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