In the vale I chanced to walk
And – as fate would have it –
‘Do you speak Stone?’
The Hornbeam asked,
Sounding somewhat frazzled.
I stopped and stared,
And wondered to myself
How it could be that
Anybody would assume
That somebody speaks Tree.
This somebody, alas, was I
And clearly did I hear
The English Oak that stood nearby
Chuckling in my ear.
I frowned and spoke –
In Tree, it seems –
‘I’m really mighty sorry,
I don’t speak Stone but
I would ask what seems to be your worry.’
‘Haha’, the English Oak replied,
But the Hornbeam grumbled,
‘It is a tiny stone beneath
My root which has me stunted.’
So I bent down to dig a bit,
And found the troubled root,
There underneath a stone lay hid
Which gladly I removed.
‘Kind thanks to you’,
Said English Oak, while
Hornbeam was a-titter
With joy and mirth and
Frolicking his roots hither and thither.
I held the stone fast in my hand,
When I could feel it move.
Then open burst the pebble,
Which had me much amused.
A dragon coiled around my wrist
And snugly took abode
Half up my sleeve, half peeping out
Feeling quite at home.
While I still wondered at the beast,
It turned its shining head and
Regarding me the creature said:
‘You’re good at Stone, I give you that,
But I shall teach you Dragon.’
© jsmorgane (Jan 2014)